Ransom
by SpillingInk
Summary: Post-Always, Castle and Beckett: Captured for a surprising reason, Castle and Beckett struggle to escape as an unexpected character plays the balance of powers to get them back. Guns, drugs, and interrogations, all with an added twist.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own nothing, make nothing, claim nothing. Copy away, I can't stop you. :)

* * *

_**Prologue**_

"Director." A young agent in a crisp suit with a clean face pressed open the office door with one hand, a small manila envelope swinging in the other. "You may want to take a look at this."

A potted tree decorated the corner of the large office; glass windows looked out on a spectacular cityscape. Behind a desk of polished cherry, an elder gentleman in a starched white shirt straightened from the files spread over his desk, his square frame too large for his creaking chair.

"Information from our Iranian asset?" the director asked, clicking his pen repeatedly in unconscious rhythm, a habit built from long hours behind conference tables and countless debriefings.

"No. From our local Mexican runners." The young agent stepped in, letting the door swing shut behind him.

"Drugs, guns, what's new?" muttered the director rhetorically; hunching his shoulders back over his papers. "What I need is the Iranian intel. By yesterday."

"This isn't intel sir. It's a sort of ransom message. I would advise an immediate review."

"Ransom? That's not my department." The director looked at his subordinate critically, and reading into his silence, reached for the envelope.

Inside was a cheap plastic DVD case containing a generic brand DVD. No instructions. Turning, he shoved it into his computer and drummed the desk as the computer responded with the appropriate program. No documents, folders, or images. Just one solitary file, most likely from a hand-held camera or similar recording device.

The video opened, revealing a hooded victim lashed to a chair in front of an untraceable black back-drop. The director leaned back against his chair and resumed clicking his pen, watching the hostage shift uncomfortably as a computerized voice ran through a short list of demands. His thumb stopped abruptly, mid-click, when the list concluded and a string yanked the hood from the victim's head.

"What the hell?" The director ground out. "How the fuck did they know?"

* * *

_**Chapter 1**_

* * *

She stirred, rousing him.

"No, stay."

The woman at his side burrowed her face into the thick of his shoulder, using her forehead to press her chest away, just enough to free her hand from between their bodies.

"Kate," Castle whined again as her wriggling woke him further, her free hand pressing into his side. He felt chilled air wash into the created space; it felt thin and empty and not enough.

Her murmur whispered across his ear as he rolled and pinned her half beneath him, his fingers finding the soft recesses between the ridges of her ribs; the void replaced by suppleness and strength.

Soft nails worked through his hair; fingertips dragged lazily across the nape of his neck. He was in a world saturated with touch and warmth and emotion, all sense of reality scrambled and intangible. His nose was cold; he shifted it away from an irritating and damp surface, found skin and burrowed down.

A hum thrummed beneath him; her lips touched his temple. "Hey," she whispered. "Can we get a shower?"

The last word registered; he grunted a negative and rooted until he found the tiny ridges of her throat.

"No?" she asked, letting her teeth fall against the shell of his ear.

He arched his shoulders as he ran a hand down the slide of her ribs and into the basin of her waist, placing the heel of his palm against the crest of her hip to still her. "No, just..." he trailed and found her mouth, still wondrous and new on his lips.

A moment later he broke away, settling to the side. But she followed, wrapping about him.

"Just..." she prompted.

"Stay, a moment." Because he wasn't sure when they would have another.

Her arms found their way around him and she buried her words in his sternum to soften their emotional swell. "I need you," she whispered on a breath. "You have to know that, you have to know how much..."

"I know, I know," he assured, raising a hand to brush at the tangled curls; still trying to understand how she was _here_; how she was lost to him and had come _back_, desperate...

Impossible.

"I love you, Kate."

She answered with a hot, open-mouthed kiss in the dip between his collar bones, her lips resting there as she breathed against him. He let his eyes wander over her skin, but startled back at the tickle of water running off his neck.

"Kate..." he gentled, coddling her head.

"No, it's good - I need it-" she swallowed and choked on the words; his neck was slick with it now. "-It's just, I almost died - and you - only you-"

"Okay; it's okay. I've got you."

They flowed longer than he would have thought; silent, ragged breaths chasing the tears down the lines of his skin. He noted her hair was heavy and damp between his fingers and it reminded him of her clothes, cold and clinging as they peeled away.

"Did they try and drown you?" he asked quietly.

"Hm?" Beckett replied, shifting to wipe a hand at her eyes. "Oh. No. It was raining."

"You were soaked."

She lifted her head, and his fingertips caressed her throat, tracing the subtle pattern of bruises for the first time.

"Stop," she murmured, lowering her head to cover his lips, breaking into his line of vision. "You don't have to worry about that anymore."

"No?" he wondered, stroking the plane of her cheek repetitively with the pad of his thumb.

"You were right," she added, breaking away to rest her head upon his as she closed her eyes. "I was blinded and I was stupid and...I'm sorry, Rick. I'm sorry I-"

"Shhh," he cut in, angling his chin to still her words against his lips. "I already forgave you. But Kate - " he closed his eyes and steeled himself. "This can't - you can't -," he opened his eyes, found hers searching his. "Promise me."

"Castle," she murmured, features softening . "I'm done. I'm done with it all. You've convinced me my life is worth more than my mother's death."

Reaching to draw her closer, he wove his fingers into her hair. "You'll stop."

She dropped her lips to his ear. "It's over. I'm out."

"You know I'm gonna want the whole story."

"Showers make for great interrogation."

"Mmm - gotta sweat for it first," he teased, lips already traveling her jaw.

"I thought-"

"Changed my mind," he growled against her skin.

* * *

He woke first and settled an egg casserole in the oven, bearing a mug of steaming coffee on his retreat back to the bedroom. His heart stumbled at the sight of Beckett still curled asleep in his bed, and a long internal argument ensued before he set the morning's brew on the nightstand and turned towards the bathroom. She'd be late for work if he started something now.

Leaving the bathroom door cracked, Castle stripped and soaked himself in the spray. The mystery of her sudden transformation drove theory after theory across his brain, and in hindsight, he realized he had little knowledge of the circumstances that placed her soaked and desperate on his doorstep. Driving the shampoo through his hair, he growled. Now was not the time for morning-after regrets. Sure, she had brushed death. Sure, she had given up the case that had defined her life. But Beckett was rational, controlled. She wouldn't use him for comfort; not like that. She came to him because she wanted him in her life: not because she needed a one-night stand to smooth over an emotional day.

Allowing the steady water pressure to purge the suds and other thoughts from his head, he cut off the flow and stepped out, frisking himself with a towel before securing it about his waist. Exiting the steamy bathroom, he set his jaw.

Kate was gone.

The butt of his fist swung backwards to pound on the doorframe before he sagged onto his outstretched arm, suddenly weak. A one night stand...another Sophia. He glanced over the room, noting she had taken her clothes. And her coffee.

But not her phone?

He barely managed a neutral expression before she stepped in from his study; an angel in his extra-large t-shirt.

"Hey." She stopped, thrown off by his stance: half-naked with one hand braced out against the doorjamb. "Castle?" she puzzled.

Quickly, he popped out his hip and set his free hand on his waist. "Just thought you might, oh, _admire the view of a Greek god_," he improvised in his best stage voice.

She blinked, tucked in her lips, and brought her mug up to hide further expression. "Oh yes. I see the resemblance now."

"Aha!" he torqued his eyebrows into heroic posture. "Hercules, perhaps? Or Atlas? Or – dare I – Zeus?"

"Oh, no - Martha. I see the resemblance now."

"Woman you wound me," Castle flatly stated, straightening as she approached him to steal two quick kisses. "And Zeus himself could not make better coffee. I can taste the satisfaction on your tongue."

Beckett laughed, moving the mug from between them so she could kiss the warmth of his shoulder. "You know it. Double shot, too."

"It seemed like a double shot sort of day."

"Good guess," she grunted and turned, melding onto the bed in one fluid motion. "If anyone calls, tell them I'm out on a run."

Castle puzzled a moment, glancing at the clock. "Gates give you the day off?"

"Something like that," she muttered, her face turned away into the mound of blankets, mug cradled to her chest.

"And you wouldn't mind me answering your phone at nine in the morning?"

She rolled over to face him, watching him quietly a moment. "No," she finally said, a smile softening her eyes. "I wouldn't." Her gaze shifted over his shoulder, and the smile faded into mild alarm. "Castle, why is there smoke coming from your vent?"

"What? Oh! Breakfast!" he squeaked, shuffling out as quickly as the towel would allow.

Expecting to find smoke pouring from the oven door, he was surprised to find the casserole a bubbling golden brown, the delectable aroma of roasting cheese and browning sausage untainted by acrid stench. Sliding the dish onto the counter, he noticed he'd left his phone by the sink; an unread text message hovered on his screen. It was from Lanie; he flicked the bar as he retraced his steps towards the bedroom.

And stopped so quickly his feet burned as they scuffed into the carpet.

_If you had anything to do with Beckett quitting her job, we are going to have words, Castle. Lots of words.  
_  
Suddenly all his confidence in Beckett's rationality dissolved, and a cold streak shot down his spine. Suddenly he needed to know everything that had happened in the past days, and suddenly he wasn't sure of the woman waiting in his bedroom. Because Detective Kate Beckett of the Twelfth precinct would never, ever quit her job.

"Castle?" She stood in the door of his study, concern and tension written across her visage. "Castle, there is smoke-"

"Kate." He looked up, eyeing her. "Did you-" he stopped, glanced back at his phone. "Did you quit your job?" Even as he said it, he almost laughed.

She blanched. "No. Yes. _It doesn't matter,_" she finished, pointing behind him. "There are tendrils of smoke coming through your vents and if you don't call 911, I will."

Casting an obligatory glance behind him, Castle saw the tiny white snakes drifting and curling near the vent. "Ok, yes, I do find that very strange," he quipped, tapping in the digits on his keypad. "But how could you not tell me this?" He was ready to complete the dial when a pounding sounded on the loft door.

"New York Fire Department, open your door!"

"Get your clothes on!" she hissed, snapping into action and rushing past him.

Scrambling through his study, he scooped yesterday's shirt from the floor and slung it over his shoulder as he dragged his crumpled jeans and boxers up one leg and then the other. He snatched her phone and his laptop on the way out; the pounding was more insistent now and he hollered over the noise to let them know he was coming. Beckett was approaching from the direction of the laundry room, still struggling to pull her damp jeans up over her hips.

"You said 'I almost died,'" Castle continued, striding for the door. "Nothing about 'I quit my job.'"

"Does it make a difference?" she growled back.

"Yes – one is a normal situation and the other is an abnormally emotional decision." Castle flung open the door, and by the stance of the Hispanic fireman wielding a sledge hammer, not a moment too soon. Two other stout, dark men stood near their companion in full fire gear, grim and unsmiling.

"There is an electrical short on your floor. We are evacuating the building for an investigation - please come with us immediately," informed the fireman with the sledge hammer.

They scurried down the hall and scuttled into the elevator, Castle realizing for the first time he was still barefoot. Beckett nudged his Sperrys into his hands. "Gates was going to suspend me."

"So you quit? How does that make sense?" He dropped his shoes to the elevator deck and shoved in his feet.

"Will you focus a moment and realize what is happening right now?" Beckett snapped, grabbing his wrist in a vise.

He snapped his head up, and the fear spinning uncontrollably behind her eyes made his mouth run dry in realization. "No – surely this is a coincidence – I mean, you quit, right?" he asked.

"It could be a bomb, a diversion, a warning – anything," she breathed. "But they're here. Somewhere, somehow..." she shuddered, the angle of her jaw suddenly sharpening as the muscles clenched. "They're after me."

* * *

A/N: When a story grabs your mind, it shakes and shakes until it finally finds its freedom. And I missed you all. :)

I am writing this as I go; so, more reviews means I stay up later and post faster. :D


	2. Chapter 2

The metal cylinder in Detective Ryan's hand still carried an acrid smell, its pale green color obscured under a white residue. He turned it slightly as he raised it towards the Captain for inspection, revealing the label 'AN-HC SMOKE' stamped near a stainless steel lever laying against its side.

"Army issue, sir. We found three of them in the vents," he said in explanation, dreading the implications.

Gates stared emotionlessly at the smoke grenade a moment before replying. "I assume you've already searched for prints?"

Ryan shook his head. "Everything is clean. Nothing in the vents or surrounding areas. We found three sets on the doorknob but forensics won't have results for another several hours. I'm assuming they belong to Castle and family."

"And the security feeds?"

"The super is pulling the tapes now - I requested it myself."

Turning slowly, Gates assessed the firemen jockeying for position amongst the team of police in Castle's loft, searching for information they weren't likely to find.

Ryan watched her a moment, noting the way her eyes tightened at the two additional smoke grenades laying in evidence bags on the counter. An egg casserole sat beside them, a cold and eerie testament to the suddenness of Castle's disappearance. He realized these last days had been the Captain's first brush with the shadow that haunted Beckett and lurked in her Precinct; her first scalding from the dragon slaying the citizens she swore to protect.

And it shook her.

Over Gates' shoulder, Ryan caught a tousle of red near the couch. Martha and Alexis, huddled against each other amongst the cushions. In all the activity, he had failed to sit with them - to comfort them with promises he wasn't sure he could keep. For the hundredth time that morning he wished Beckett was here, restraining his fingers from reaching towards his phone. If her phone was off for his last five calls, she probably hadn't turned it on in the last twenty minutes. Damn Beckett and her stubborn independence - for breaking the rules and leaving them in this situation in the first place. And damn Gates for pushing her to quit her job. This whole nightmare was one hell of a drama he couldn't bear to watch, let alone live out.

"Martha? Alexis?" Ryan squatted near the coffee table, unsure of what to say.

Alexis brought her face up from her arms, cheeks dry but streaked with tell-tale tracks from an earlier outburst. Martha sat strangely quiet for all her dramatic flair; clear-eyed with an arm wrapped tight around Alexis.

"Can you find him, Detective?" Martha asked, raw hope shot through with despair.

Ryan caught the fumbling hand that touched his knee; he held it awkwardly and patted it once as he fought the lump in his throat. "He's family, Martha. There's nothing in our power we won't do to get him back."

"Dead or alive," added Alexis flatly, her eyes listless, faded jewels.

Ryan took a breath, scrambling for words that refused to come. Why hadn't Esposito shown yet? Because their family had been ripped apart, one terrible day at a time. "Alexis," Ryan finally managed, waiting for her tired eyes to find his. "I know this is hard and terrible and awful. But don't give up hope. If it were you, would he ever stop believing he'd find you alive?"

"No..." Alexis moaned, suddenly burying her face again with a ragged breath.

Wincing, Ryan glanced back at Martha, who smiled weakly and drew the girl closer.

"If he was obstinate enough to get himself into this, he is obstinate enough stay alive until he gets out of it," she stated, eyes shining brighter. The strength of a single mother braced her words, and the resolve of a woman accustomed to difficulty blinked the moisture away.

Ryan smiled gently back, strangely encouraged. "I guess they already questioned you?"

"Yes - not much to tell, really. Yesterday we all went to graduation. Afterwards, I went out, Alexis went to a sleepover, and Richard went home. Then around twelve today, Alexis found the smoke and an empty apartment and called 911." She cleared her throat and pushed at the hair curling over her temple. "His phone's off - and his phone is never off. I called you when they found the smoke bombs...I thought you may know something."

"I'm sorry. I wish I did. But we will." Ryan knees cracked as he stood, suddenly catching Esposito out of the corner of his eye. "Excuse me a moment," he murmured, moving away.

The suspended detective disappeared into the study, and Ryan hustled in behind him. "Do you want Gates to have your head as well as your badge?" he strained, voice low. "I said meet me in the lobby."

"She has everything she can take from me right now," grunted Esposito, continuing towards the bedroom. "And you didn't meet me in the lobby."

"I got hung up - hey, ho, where are you going, dude?" Ryan said, glancing behind his shoulder to reassure himself that Gates wasn't in pursuit.

Esposito was walking past Castle's dresser, eyes darting across the room to the bed. "Sly bastard slept with her," he mumbled. "After everything - and the idiot slept with her. Probably didn't even ask what happened - dammit Beckett! What were you thinking? Both of you!"

Glowering, Ryan grabbed Esposito's shoulder and yanked him around. "Esposito! What are you talking about?"

"I checked the security feeds in the lobby while I was waiting for you. Castle _and_ Beckett left the loft with three firemen - but the time stamp shows it was _before_ the fire department had been notified." His face darkened. "Beckett _knew_ they were after Smith, and from Smith they would be led here...just because she quit her job doesn't mean she can turn off her brain-"

"Beckett was here?" Ryan interjected. "But I thought they broke up - I mean, broke up their not-dating dating thing - and how does Smith connect to Castle?"

"Castle was working on Johanna's murder behind Beckett's back. Smith contacted Castle and told him to keep Beckett off the case. Some kind of deal he'd worked out." Esposito pushed by Ryan to step back into Castle's study. "Yeah, they fought about it - but when Beckett quit her job she must have come back here to make up with Castle, forgetting that Cole Maddox was after Smith, and Smith would lead Maddox right back here." He was opening and closing the desk drawers now, rifling through papers and pens. The last drawer contained several dozen files; he grabbed them in one heap and dropped them across the desk.

Ryan blinked at his partner's back for a moment, watching him briefly flip open each folder. And suddenly, he understood. "You're looking for Castle's murder files," he stated, stepping forward to join the search. "We find these guys and we find Castle and Beckett."

"I only hope we find them before it's too late," Esposito replied grimly, flipping through the last of the folders. Shutting the last one, he sank into Castle's chair. "Nothin'."

Darting his eyes around the shelves, Ryan saw only bindings and bookends. "He loves gadgets. Probably doesn't even have any hard copies - I'd bet it's all electronic."

"Then we're screwed. He took his laptop."

The corner drawer was still half-open; Ryan reached in and retrieved a small remote. Pointing it at the large monitor hanging from the ceiling, he held his breath as it powered on. "Hey - it's not a TV."

Esposito squinted at the few icons dotting the screen, taking the remote from Ryan's hand. But the buttons weren't opening anything; he mashed them, moved the remote through the air, and finally smacked it several times against his palm. "Stupid batteries," he grumbled.

Ryan glanced once at the minimalistic remote and walked forward to touch a 'Nikki Heat' icon. A web of pictures exploded over the screen - but it was pure fiction, with nothing pertaining to Johanna Beckett's murder. He tried another, and another, all with same result. "Looks like it's on his laptop," he sighed, shoulders slumping as he moved away. "Dead end."

Setting his jaw, Esposito turned his face towards the ceiling. "No," he murmured, leaning back in the chair and popping his knuckles, one by one. A moment later, he suddenly stood, punching the trash-can icon hovering in the corner of the screen. Kate Beckett's face filled the screen; another touch brought the entire murder board surfacing from the blackness.

"The trash?" Ryan asked, incredulous. "How'd you know to look there?"

"Too many ex-girlfriends," Esposito snorted. "Go find Gates."

. . . . .

Several blocks away, outside a moderate downtown apartment complex surrounded by street vendors and a few small boutiques, a blue-and-white United States Postal Service truck pulled away from the curb and puttered into traffic. Inside the old complex, an overweight woman with layers of makeup painted around her small eyes sorted the day's mail into small stacks, heaving herself upwards every so often to stuff the envelopes and small packages unceremoniously into their designated postal boxes lining one side of the room.

The woman finished her task and pushed the empty mail carton under the table with one sandaled foot, grunting at the single white envelope she found lying beneath it. Reaching laboriously to the floor, she gathered the envelope and flipped it over, noting it had been forwarded from a previous address. She recognized the recipient's name: Detective Katherine Beckett, the building's only resident employed by the NYPD. Shuffling back to the wall, she slipped the envelope into the Detective's otherwise empty box, where it waited in solitary confinement for the discovery of its contents.

* * *

As soon as she jumped towards the open van, Beckett felt the wrongness of the situation. The firemen had told her there was a bomb threat and the police were securing a perimeter; that they had suspected an attack and had a van waiting to shuttle her to safety. She had been too worried about the threat of a sniper to process any details during the seconds she spent weaving across the sidewalk towards the safety of the enclosed vehicle, but now that she was nearly inside, her brain was filtering the scene from the muck of fear. No sirens, lights, or uniforms had been present; the flow of people had been uninterrupted in the shadow of Castle's building.

She landed on her stomach on the metal floor, noting the stripped walls and caged front with a heightening sense of alarm. Castle's weight immediately followed, pressing her into the grimy metal as she struggled to breathe beneath him. It was too dirty, too bare: this wasn't a secure vehicle under the command of the NYPD.

This was a prison.

The panic overwhelmed her, adrenaline moving her body before she even knew what she was doing. Her palms pressed against the floor as she lifted both their bodies upwards in a mighty heave; the tendons in her shoulders standing out under the sudden tension and her abdominals a solid wall as her knees shot forward into a crouch. Castle yelped in surprise as he rose and tumbled sideways into the van wall, the force of her toss leaving him upright on one knee. Beckett launched herself backwards, turning in her vector to face the door, seeing there was still a sliver of light; still hope-

She slammed into the closing door a moment too late, her body crushing into itself against the unyielding wall. She heard shouting and realized she was screaming at Castle to move, her fists still pounding uselessly against the door. An instinct sparked; she whirled but they were already on her, hands clawing at her shoulders and yanking at her wrists. Beckett writhed, loosing one elbow to fly into the nose of an assailant, bringing a spatter of blood across her cheek and a stream of foreign words in her ear. The floor of the van impacted her spine - she felt the jarring through her teeth - and then they had one arm pinned, one wrist encircled in steel cuffs. Bucking upwards, she refused to be turned over, needing stay on her back where she had her knees and elbows to protect her...but her foot slipped in the loose grime, and the weight of her opponents flattened her, sinews of a thick arm crushing her neck until her hearing roared and her vision spotted away into blackness.

When air could flow around her coughing, she found her hands secured behind her back, her feet shackled in a second pair of cuffs, and a boot planted between her shoulder blades to hold her against the floor. Opening her lids, she met Castle's blue stare, the whites of his eyes betraying his own panic. Beckett snapped her head up, and the barrel of a weapon jabbed deeply into her skull.

"Kate - stop - Kate-" Castle pleaded, his head lying obediently against the floor.

She heard him, but was already twisting her hips to flip over and rise up. The boot burrowed into her back, and the barrel whipped across her temple with enough force to stun her back into stillness. Blinking furiously, the haze in her vision finally dissipated, leaving her with a pulsing headache and a heavy pain over her left eye.

"Kate, they're threatening to kill you. Stop moving, please…" Castle was almost whimpering now.

The combination of a gun barrel to his head, the desperation in his tone, and the force of the boot compressing her ribs sapped the last of the fight from her spirit. Sagging her head onto the floor, she gasped helplessly, unable to expand her chest more than a few inches. She felt like a dying fish, caught in the net of her darkest fears.

"Let her breath, dammit! Can't you see she's done? Give her some room!"

Beckett blinked at him, holding his stare with a resigned finality. She would watch him until they killed her; watch the way his brow sloped across those crystal eyes, the way his lips moved over a flash of teeth. She would watch, and remember the one night they had together before her past severed their future.

. . . . . . .

Their handcuffs were secured into the empty seat-bolts set in the floor, allowing their captors to move away and shrug off the heavy fire gear before settling against the front cage, rifles across their knees. Castle wasn't sure how long he and Beckett lay in silence, the vibrations of the road numbing their bodies, heat seeping through the floor from the exhaust passing beneath the chassis. He knew it was hours. First through the stop-and-go of New York's streets, then through the varying speed of the city highway; finally smoothing into a constant hum as the van carried them over the miles. It was hours of watching Beckett stare at him, quiet death in her eyes.

"Castle." Her voice was quiet, rasping.

Shifting his head, he focused his attention on her.

"You have to do everything they say," she whispered. "Don't make eye contact. Don't argue. Don't antagonize them. Whatever they do to me, you cannot intervene. It will only get you killed."

"Kate-" he started, but she hardened her face and he dropped his voice. "I'm not very good at that."

"I know," Beckett replied, a disjointed smile floating across her features.

"I'm not going to let them kill you," he insisted.

Another strange smile lifted the corners of her mouth. "That's not your choice to make, Rick. Don't make them kill you, too."

He pulled himself towards his handcuffs, briefly attracting the attention of the guards as he rolled onto his back. But there wasn't anywhere to go, and they quickly lost interest. He was closer to Beckett now - he could see the play of her eyelashes beneath her brow as she looked up at him. "You can't just give up," he murmured. "We've got the entire NYPD behind us, just waiting to bring these people to justice."

A dangerous glimmer sparked in the darkness of her eyes. "Justice?" she asked, raising her eyebrows. "Justice?"

Her tone caused him to do a double-take at her expression, trying to catch the implication.

"This isn't about justice," she husked above a whisper. "This is about survival. And vengeance."

* * *

A/N: I've got this whole thing all planned out, so hang on for the ride. I've never been more excited to write a story!


	3. Chapter 3

The cabinets were organized; the bed made; the bookshelves a neatly arranged, if overflowing, library. Her fridge was mostly empty, her trash only half-full, and the only items occupying the sink were a mug and spoon which Ryan belatedly realized had been cleaned and left to dry. Walking back towards the short flight of stairs, he examined the books stacked at the end of each step, not even sure what he was looking for anymore. A piece of paper maybe, with an appointment or a number; or perhaps a scrap of napkin used as a note pad before being turned into a bookmark. Anything with a new lead.

Giving up on the books, Ryan stepped into Beckett's home office and rejoined Esposito at the makeshift murder board. "Between their two boards, I thought we would at least get something," he mumbled.

Esposito rolled his head and looked over. "Yeah well, pray harder."

Ryan slumped. "At this point, I'm ready to try anything."

After a long moment of staring morosely at the pink and yellow papers arranged neatly across the wood slats, Ryan stirred. "You want me to call Gates?"

"I'm sure as hell not calling her. Not after that public reaming she gave me this morning."

"What did you expect? That you could waltz into her crime scene and just get a slap on the wrist?" Ryan dug into his pocket for his phone.

"Well, considering the circumstances, I expected a little more understanding, yeah," Esposito replied.

Ryan dialed, waited, and left a message at the tone. Hanging up, he returned the phone to his pocket. "I'll bet she's talking to them now."

"And this is all gonna be evidence." Esposito whipped out his phone and snapped a few photographs of the board, then dug around in the desk drawers for a USB cord. Plugging one end into his phone, he jiggled the opposite end into Beckett's laptop and opened the file browser.

"I'm not seeing this..." Ryan sang, turning and walking towards the door.

"Is the FBI here yet? Is this their crime scene?"

Shrugging, Ryan walked out. "It's your badge."

"Why, Ryan? Should I be worried?" Esposito fired through the doorway.

Halfway across the living room, Ryan stopped with clenched fists. Carefully, he measured out his reply. "I'm on your side, Javi. If I hadn't of acted, she'd already be dead."

"Maybe." There was a long pause as Esposito finished copying files and replaced the phone cord, coming out to brush by Ryan's shoulder. "And maybe not."

"A maybe. You're pissed at me on a maybe," Ryan accused, shoulders hunched about his neck.

Esposito turned in front of the apartment door, his jaw pulsing a muscle in his cheek. "I don't like this," he ground out, eyes hard. "I don't like the fact that Montgomery was killed, and a new captain was appointed from IA instead of one of our own. I don't like the fact that Beckett's apartment blew up during a case involving the FBI. I don't like that Gates is so eager to get the suits involved, and I _really _don't like the fact that Beckett disappeared _the day after_ you told Gates we were working on this case behind her back." Esposito nearly shouted the last sentence, jabbing his finger in emphasis.

Ryan iced over. "You're paranoid."

Grabbing the door handle, Esposito twisted hard. "Maybe," he said; and flinging it open, he held the door at arm's length as he stepped into Ryan's space. "But maybe not."

Ryan waited a moment to collect his temper before following – only to find that he had missed the elevator and Esposito had descended without him. When he finally did make it down to the lobby, he was slightly surprised to find his partner waiting, fiddling with his jacket.

"I'm going to check her mail," Ryan informed, starting towards the mail room.

"Just did," Esposito corrected. "Nothin' there."

Ryan swiped a hand over his eyes and turned slowly. "Javi-" he stopped, losing the rigidness in his spine. "It's just- there is a system, and I have faith in that system. There is a lot of heat between you and Gates-" he quickly held up his hands to fend off Esposito's defense "-and I'm not saying it isn't justified: but even if she is in the wrong, there is still a system, a process, and a law. We do our research, we get our proof, and we go through the right avenues."

"Kev, chill." Esposito opened his palms at his waist. "Look at me. I'm a good cop. I'm choked by a web of red tape, but I want the same thing you do, bro. Justice."

Ryan gave a quick nod. "I know. Just...don't buck the system."

Esposito shrugged and jerked his head towards the door. "I'm not. Just asking questions. Let's go."

Outside, Esposito declined Ryan's offer for a ride to the precinct and opted for a cab ride home instead. A few blocks into his fare, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a plain white envelope, addressed and forwarded to Detective Katherine Beckett.

* * *

Sweat ran from Castle's temple and down his cheek, rounding his jaw before seeping into his collar. The steady movement of the van had changed; now it seemed that the slowing, turning, swaying, and accelerating would never end. Thick body odor and trace fumes mingled with the acrid burn of cigarettes smoldering between the guards' fingers. Beside him, his partner laid curled away from him, cuffed hand and foot with knees drawn up to keep herself from rolling about the van. Snippets of Alexis' speech, so touching at the podium, now heaved in his chest and battered his resolve.

_Endings are inevitable. You say goodbye. Today is one of those days for us._

Castle squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the pressure choking his throat.

There was a shift beside him, followed by a firm touch against his knees as they rounded a curve. He looked up and found his solid ground pressing her knees into his as comfort softened her eyes.

"It's killing me, you know." Castle murmured, able to breathe again.

Beckett made a soft noise, questioning.

He smiled brokenly and shifted his wrists against the cuffs bolted into the floor. "Not being able to touch you."

She glanced at his lips and blinked, suddenly turning her face into her shoulder.

"Kate?"

Beckett didn't answer immediately, closing her eyes against her sleeve. When she brought them back to his gaze they were too bright; too clear - burdened with too many unspoken words. "Yes, Rick," she whispered. "I know."

The van slowed and the tires pinged as they turned onto gravel. The driver exchanged several shouts with unseen persons before they lurched forward once more to grind over the small rocks, dust seeping through the floorboards.

Finally, moments later, the engine shuddered into silence.

The guards mashed their cigarette butts into the floor and pushed to their feet. Before they had taken more than a step, the rear latch released and the back doors groaned outwards.

The first thing Castle noticed was the air: it was clear and sharp, yet tinted with a slight musk like Central Park after a light rain. Secondly, craning his neck, he noticed the trees: pillar after pillar of wood and bark, a dense forest thick with underbrush. Except for the narrow ribbon of gravel fighting tenuously for its place amongst the briars, Castle saw no sign of civilization or hope of discovery.

Their handcuffs were pried from the seat-bolts, and the three acting firemen dragged Castle from the van. As he got his feet beneath him, stiff from hours against the floor, he turned to see Beckett shoved out by two new thugs; dark and swarthy and covered in tattoos. Her shoes scuffed across the gravel as she landed, ankles jerking hard against the chain before she twisted and fell into the rocks.

"Hey bastards!" Castle shouted, "You forgot the cuffs!" He stepped towards her, twisting his head to snarl at the guard beside him -

and his neck snapped back, a fist cracking across his nose. Instantaneous pain flooded across his face and pulsed between his eyes; he staggered and fell backwards, incapable of catching himself. Beckett was near; he could hear her mumbling but couldn't concentrate on the words. A moment later rough hands hauled him to his knees; a boot kicked at him and he stood up, hunched half-blind and cringing in anticipation of the next blow.

It didn't come. They shoved him forwards instead; he ran his elbow along the van to guide his way as his vision was fragmented by the water still streaming from his eyes. Fighting to focus as they left the van behind, Castle saw he was walking towards the basement level of a modest cabin built into a steep hillside, and the gravel ended where a large wrap-around porch extended overhead. On his left, a concrete retaining wall extended out from the cabin and up to the height of the first floor; on his right the mountainside dropped steeply away. He called out for Beckett but received no answer; and when he attempted to twist back they wrestled him through the basement door and into darkness.

The room smelled earthy, musky, and rancid. The bare floor was polished concrete, and the soles of his shoes scraped on the bits of dirt and grime beneath. His eyes struggled to adjust from the bright sunlight; he could see bodies moving but couldn't detail the faces.

"How does he look?" His escort's accented words were directed towards a short, scrawny man snaking into Castle's view. In comparison to the deep skin tones of the others that blended into the shadows, this man glowed a sickly white. A pock-marked face disguised his age and gave him a middle-age appearance; but in close, Castle realized his tone and build belonged to a much younger body. Small, sharp grey eyes pierced Castle's own visage from deep within the man's skull; his stare intense and metallic.

"No," he said in a voice that reminded Castle of a thin wind. "Not pretty enough."

A dozen retorts sprang to Castle's mind; all of them immediately dashed to pieces as the guards threw him backwards into the wall, dragging his face against a seam in the foundation and spinning him out to catch another punch. His teeth ground sideways under the impact and caught his tongue; he raised his bound fists to protect his face but received a wallop across both ears instead, followed by a third punch that bounced his skull against the wall and exploded the lights. Desperate, he allowed his knees to give out and he dropped down, hunching against the wall with arms up as he tried to make himself as small a target as possible.

It didn't matter; they dragged him to his feet and uncuffed him only to tape his limbs to a chair set in front of a black sheet, leaving him completely defenseless.

"You've got a nice face for a camera," the chalky man commented, indicating Castle's face with an affected hand. "It just needed a little stage make-up for dramatic effect."

"What the hell is this about?" Castle rattled out, choked by the thickness collecting in his throat and dazed by the sudden attack.

"It's about me and your daddy and a little deal he reneged on," the man calmly replied.

"I don't have a dad. Let me go and check your facts next time."

"Richard, please. You, of all people, should know how babies are made." Leaning over, the man settled at eye level with Castle. "Don't tell me you don't know him. I've got solid intel that says he knows you."

Castle couldn't hold the stare and looked away.

In the silence, his antagonist straightened. "You don't, do you. You really don't. I wondered - I suspected as much...but - very, very interesting." Briskly turning on a heel, he snapped and someone extended him a small camera. Accepting it in one hand, he waved the other in Castle's direction.

A hood descended over Castle's head, but his hearing was unimpaired.

"Your daddy knows, and for your sake, I hope he cares."

* * *

He expected another beating when they were done filming, and remained racked with tension as they led him up a flight of stairs, through a sparsely furnished living area and into a bare bedroom with a double bed. There was a door in the wall adjacent to the bed; he assumed it led to the bathroom and noted that several new deadbolts had been bolted into the finished wood so that it securely locked, oddly so, from the outside.

No. It wasn't odd. It was less a poor design job and more a hasty prison construction. One guard was already spinning the bolts, the other shoving him forward with a rifle barrel to his spine. Castle hesitated at the threshold - there no windows and the lights were off - but the nearest guard growled and yanked his arm so that he staggered through the doorway, striking his foot on an odd corner and stumbling to his knees. Total darkness enveloped him as the door clobbered shut against the frame and the deadbolts slid into their sheaths with finality. It reminded him of the sound of a knife sharpening against a whetstone, or a bullet slipping into a chamber.

Reaching his hands forward, he felt around in a small circle. A tub, he thought, immediately to his left; and that was definitely cabinets and a counter crowding him on the right. If he stood, he would probably find the light switch somewhere behind him. He shifted a knee to stand -

"Castle?"

His lungs hitched into his throat and he could have cried with relief. "Kate? Kate, where are you?"

"Over here. I'm sitting on the toilet," she replied, her voice a beacon in the darkness before him.

"With your pants down?"

"Castle."

"I know, I know," he defended. "No lights?"

"Switch doesn't work."

He crawled in her direction. "Well, I guess I'll be feeling you up-" he recoiled with a sudden howl of pain as his nose bumped firmly into her knee, doubling over onto the tile in a protective position.

He felt her hands in his hair; felt her fingers spin against his scalp as she guided herself off the toilet without hurting him further.

"Baby, was that your nose?" Beckett's hands were sliding now, coming down one side of his neck and touching his collar. "You're covered in blood."

Pressure pulsed through his nose again, and his fingers warmed with new blood. "You never call me baby," Castle mumbled. "Must have really missed me. Shit, this hurts."

"Here - sit up." She scooted backwards slightly, gently tugging on the back of his shirt. Castle followed carefully, turning his back to her and letting her guide him until he sat in the V of her legs with his shoulders pressed to her chest, sandwiching her between himself and the wall.

"No ankle cuffs?" he blubbed, tilting his head backwards to rest against the wall.

"Guess they didn't want to carry me," she replied, running her fingers up the length of his spine and touching the base of his skull. "No, no, don't do that - tilt your head forward so the blood won't drain down your throat."

"Okay," he complied, letting his head hang downwards. "Prolly broke my nose, huh?"

"Yeah," she sighed. "Probably did." Looping her cuffed hands over his head, she brought her arms down around him and touched his nose. Castle immediately reacted, grabbing her wrists and pulling her fingers away from his face.

"Hey, careful!" he exclaimed.

"Relax, I'm just trying to see if it's dislocated."

He relented enough to let her bring her thumbs back up, but kept a strong grip on her wrists.

"Rick, I can't be gentle with you controlling my hands like that." She pressed herself against him, crooking her chin over his shoulder. "You can trust me," she said softly, extending her fingers to caress his jaw. "I won't hurt you."

He wasn't accustomed to her being this intimate; the somersaults in his stomach were rapidly winning out over the pain. Dropping her wrists, he gripped the hem of his shirt to keep his hands occupied and felt her thumbs feather along either side of his nose.

"It's pretty swollen. And it might have already reset itself; I'm going to do it again, but press a little harder, okay?"

He grunted and curled his fingers into fists around the fabric. He flinched backwards uncontrollably as she applied slightly more pressure to a particular area, but she immediately removed her thumbs, smoothing one along his cheek.

"Sorry; that's all. It's only slightly off, and I wouldn't feel comfortable setting it in the dark." Dropping her hands, Beckett untangled his fists from his shirt. "We'll wait a moment until the bleeding stops before I'll look around for something to wash you off with."

As his hands turned and wrapped around hers, she unhooked her chin and nestled her cheek against his hunched shoulder, resting in silence.

"They just - took you," she said suddenly, rubbing her thumbs against his. "It was so fast. I thought they'd decided you were expendable and just decided to put a bullet through you."

"No, no, I was just down in the basement, playing pool with the guys."

"What?" she murmured, rolling the weight of her head onto her chin to look in his direction.

She could do that over and over, and he would never get tired of it. "Oh, you know; where my head is the cue ball and they have a long draw..."

She kissed his shoulder then, drawing her arms tighter about him. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Yeah well, it's nothing compared to our impending doom."

Beckett hummed against him, the vibrations traveling straight through his soul. "I'm sorry I dragged you into this. I shouldn't have-" she cut off abruptly at Castle's chuckle. "What?"

"The irony is, we were both reading from the entirely wrong storyline."

In the silence, he could almost see her raising her eyebrows, waiting for an explanation. "We were reading out of Nikki Heat, but this is really about Derek Storm."

More silence; he felt her jaw moving and realized she was worrying her lip in thought.

"Clara Strike?" Castle hinted, not really wanting to come right out and say it; not when he didn't know what he thought about it, or felt about it, or if he would even live long enough to make it worth sorting it all out.

"This is actually about you? About something you were involved with when shadowing Sophia?" Beckett finally said, incredulous.

"Close," Castle said. "I'm being held to extort a ransom from my father."

* * *

A/N: Well? I got super excited again as I wrote this - and I hope I wrote an enjoyable chapter! I mean, what to do with Ryan and Esposito? Is Gates in on the conspiracy? Is Espo right to withhold evidence? What the heck is in that white envelope, and who sent it out? How is Castle going to deal with the fact he has to depend on a father he never knew? Is Beckett truly out of danger? :) Mwuahaaa so stoked!

Review if you think you have answers...can you guess the next twist?

Okay, my schedule is settling down a little (I think...) and I can almost PROMISE it won't be another three weeks before I post again. If I keep delaying, we will never finish the story before the show starts up again, and that would be super frustrating to all of us, lol!


	4. Chapter 4

They came for her.

The sliver of daylight under the door had dimmed to blackness hours ago, and Beckett was resting with her head against his shoulder, her hair a silk blanket between his fingers. She hadn't left his side since he'd told her about his father - the only moment she had slipped away was to search through the squeaky drawers for a towel, returning shortly with warm hands from the sink, a dripping cloth between them.

He'd blabbed to take his mind off the pain as she wiped him down – mostly making comic guesses about his father's identity and slanderous remarks about Sophia – but the reality of his father's criminal connections eventually drained the adrenaline and he slumped into silent angst. When he stated in all seriousness that they were as good as dead, she started unbuttoning his shirt. And when he whispered that a father wouldn't save a son that he'd never cared existed; she pressed her lips to his shoulder, looped her arms around his neck, and told him she loved him.

At that, he nearly broke down in tears. His emotions hung on a tenuous thread as he circled his arms around her in a needy embrace, surprised by the feel of smooth, bare skin against his arms.

She'd used her shirt to soak up his blood.

He wept then, held by her embrace as he cried softly for the hopes of a little boy who'd dreamed of a hero and woke to a villain.

She loved him. So perfectly. And now she was gone.

They'd come with guns and heavy strides; with snide remarks and reviling cat calls. She'd been snatched from his lap before he could scramble up to fight. She'd told him not to anyway, before; she'd dried his tears and made him promise - told him it was hostage protocol and their best chance. His protector, always.

The moment of moral conflict took too long; they were already handing her off through the doorway by the time he threw out a fist. The butt of a rifle landed on his chest; he gripped it and stared in anger at the hard black eyes of its owner, mere inches away.

"Is she strong?" The guard hissed.

Castle growled, trying to wrench the weapon away. It shoved into his chest again and he lost his grip, stumbling backwards. "Touch her and I'll shoot your balls off," he snapped.

The guard glanced over his shoulder at the boorish crowd, then turned back to Castle, a strange intensity on his face that Castle couldn't identify. "She'll survive," he said thickly, and backing out, slammed the bolts into place.

* * *

The dim lighting cast confusing shadows between the bodies crowding the room; Beckett caught a glimpse of a keg set on the bar between the kitchen and the living room, of rifles lining the wall by the fireplace, and a plain, long couch where several men languished, hooting in her direction and beckoning obscenely. Guards on either side of her clutched her upper arms in vise grips so that her feet barely touched the floor as she was dragged forward, and she could smell the faint spice of cigars laced into the headiness of alcohol and drugs that permeated the air. Hands were everywhere: she had limited protection with her cuffed hands before her and nothing to shield her from behind; so she writhed and kicked out in helpless indignation. It only fueled the jeering. She was theirs, and they intended to relish the opportunity.

The bodies suddenly shifted in the haze before her - she was jerked sideways as one of the guards stopped and the other didn't - and when they brought her back around, she stood chest to chest with an immaculately dressed Hispanic sporting a manicured goatee. His smooth face was expressionless, except for a tiny, sardonic lift at one corner of his mouth.

Beckett met his dark eyes, her lungs straining with tension as something triggered in her mind. She knew this man. She had stared into those dead eyes before; back in another world.

"I am ready to experience the full force of the NYPD, Detective Beckett," the man said, the words coating his tongue and rolling over his teeth. He leaned in suddenly, hot air on her ear. "In /my/ city," he cut sharply.

Beckett's blood iced. Cesar Vales. Slaughter's suspect in a series of murders. The Mexican gang leader she had warned out of her city. "I see you've left mine," she managed as steadily as possible, blood rushing in her ears. This was a bad man. A very, very bad man.

"Oh no, _mi amor_. I'm only visiting my boys out here; settling some affairs," he waved a hand dismissively, using the motion to caress the edges of her hair. "They know how I love a welcome." Opening his body away from her, he proffered a hand in the direction of the stairs and addressed the guard to her left. "_Gallego, por favor, a mi oficina_.

Gallego leered, reset his vise grip on her arm, and stepped forward. Beckett allowed herself to be taken, refusing to pleasure the crowd with a futile struggle. It was better to save her strength for the events to come.

The basement air rushed up to meet her on the stairs, a refreshing coolness to the smothering heat above. Just as her escort pulled her off the last step behind Vales and into a concrete room, a door on the opposite side opened and a gangly, pasty man wafted through. He took one look at Beckett and her tormentors and stopped short, door ajar.

"Vales," the pasty man purred with an edge. "What are you doing with my hostage?"

Vales startled when the man walked in; now his face clouded as he lowered his brow. "Why are you in my office, Ghost?" The Mexican boss moved forward, fingering his holster. "Get your little ass out of my _business_," he spat.

Ghost didn't move. "It's our business," he calmly corrected. "And that-" he tipped his head towards Beckett, "-is my business."

"Gallego, take her through." Vales commanded. He was standing in Ghost's personal space now, but the smaller man looked merely apathetic.

"If you take her in there, I will tell them how uncooperative you have been lately. I will also inform them that I suspect a mole amongst your members, and your organization is a potential threat to our security. And do you know what that would mean, Mr. Vales?"

Vales repetitively flicked the safely latch on his holster. "I think I'll kill you and frame the bitch cop."

Ghost suddenly showed some interest. "She's a cop. Interesting." He looked past Vales and addressed Beckett with snide curiosity. "So hired security has a same-bed policy these days for the affluent, is that it?"

Beckett chose silence in reply. Hope sputtered within the black pit inside her: she had found a weakness in the organization. Two bosses.

"Gallego!" Vales barked.

Gallego's fingers tightened around her arm, but he only shuffled forward slightly.

Ghost smiled thinly, white lips stretching whiter. "Even your men respect me. Because I speak for powers much, much bigger than you. You would do better to remember that." Ghost bumped past Vales, leaving him seething in the doorway. "Return her to the bathroom," he instructed Gallego. "No detours and _no touching_, or fingers will fall." He waggled his fingers in emphasis.

Vales turned, his pride repaired. "I know what this is," he said. "This isn't about cooperation, or a hostage, or my unwanted liaison with the organization. This is about your sister."

Ghost, for the first time, stiffened in alarm. "What do you know of my sister?"

"I'm not the only one who does their research, _Ghost_." Vales straightened the cuff of his jacket. "Word is you abducted her and, most likely, killed her. There are nice rewards for leading to your arrest."

"The record is wrong." Ghost was still facing Beckett, the alarm replaced by grey, icy death. "And someone will die when I find out where she is."

"Sex slave," sneered Vales. "She's a dirty whore."

Ghost was faster than Beckett would have judged; he whipped the back of his fist across Vales' face before the Mexican had taken more than a step away. An instant later, the two men stood rigidly apart, each with a pistol trained on the other.

"Gallego," Ghost calmly spoke, his eyes never leaving Vales stare. "Take her back."

As Beckett ascended the stairs, her last glance showed them still locked in a motionless, silent battle of wills.

Castle was wrapped around her the moment the door shut them in, hands on her face and too many words. She shook her head repeatedly until he ceased his interrogation and begged her to speak.

"Nothing happened, Castle, nothing happened; I'm fine," she murmured.

But she was trembling in his embrace, and he lowered them to the floor where she could curl up against him, face in his neck and arms tucked between her thighs and her chest, fingers tangling desperately into his shirt as he enveloped her.

* * *

**Wednesday morning, following day. CIA Headquarters: McLean, VA**

"Director." A young agent in a crisp suit with a clean face pressed open the office door with one hand, a small manila envelope swinging in the other. "You may want to take a look at this."

A potted tree decorated the corner of the large office; glass windows looked out on a spectacular cityscape. Behind a desk of polished cherry, an elder gentleman in a starched white shirt straightened from the files spread over his desk, his square frame too large for his creaking chair.

"Information from our Iranian asset?" the Director asked, clicking his pen repeatedly in unconscious rhythm, a habit built from long hours behind conference tables and countless debriefings.

"No. From our local Mexican runners." The young agent stepped in, letting the door swing shut behind him.

"Drugs, guns, what's new?" muttered the Director rhetorically; hunching his shoulders back over his papers. "What I need is the Iranian intel. By yesterday."

"This isn't intel sir. It's a sort of ransom message. I would advise immediate review."

"Ransom? That's not my department." The director looked at his subordinate critically, and reading into his silence, reached for the envelope.

Inside was a cheap plastic DVD case containing a generic brand DVD with no instructions. Turning, he shoved it into his computer and drummed the desk as the computer responded with the appropriate program. No documents, folders, or images. Just one solitary video file, most likely from a hand-held camera or similar recording device.

The file opened, revealing a hooded victim lashed to a chair in front of an untraceable black back-drop. The director leaned back against his chair and resumed clicking his pen, watching the hostage shift uncomfortably as a computerized voice ran through a short list of demands. His thumb stopped abruptly, mid-click, when the list concluded and a string yanked the hood from the victim's head.

"What the hell?" The director ground out. "How the fuck did they know?"

The younger agent stepped in closer to the desk, his quiet eyes measuring the Director's face. "So it's true?" he asked cautiously.

The Director ejected the disc and returned it to its case before speaking. "How many girls did you screw before you put on the ring, Carson?" he asked nonchalantly.

"None, sir," Carson replied. "She was the one."

The Director guffawed and swiveled to face him. "Bull_shit_, Carson. This isn't Puritan New England."

Carson's eyes sharpened slightly. "Morality isn't relative, sir," he asserted.

Smiling patronizingly, the Director squinted and spun his pen across his fingers. "Sometimes I wonder how you've survived working with me all these years."

His office assistant shrugged. "I'm forgiving enough. Should I arrange a conference?" he asked, gesturing at the disc.

"Bring in everyone involved with the Vales deal. One hour. And get me the house hostage expert, too."

Carson nodded, turning away.

"And Carson?"

The young man turned back, a hand on the door.

"I ordered a paternity test over thirty years ago. It was stupid of me."

"That's why I stick to one woman, sir."

"Oh no; the sex was a fantastic decision. Ordering the test through the Feds was idiotic."

"I see." Carson pressed his lips into a thin line. "I'm sorry about your son."

The Director cracked his knuckles and threw his ankles up onto the desk. "Don't worry about it. It came back negative."

* * *

It was nearing afternoon, the hour in which the sun fit perfectly between two nearby buildings to strike through the conference room windows with surprising brightness. The Director powered up the smart screen, looking for Carson amongst the mingling team only to find his request preempted as his assistant drew the blinds.

In the dimming room, the team members found their seats and shuffled files until the Director tapped on the table's end with his pen and touched the screen with his free hand. A picture of Cesar Vales materialized beside a short profile.

"Here," the Director held up the ransom disc briefly, "we have a unique situation." He waved the disc towards Vales' picture. "As you know, the CIA has often courted a tenuous relationship with cartels and organized crime, as they tend to be reliable information brokers between us and our more direct enemies." Turning back to face the table, he continued. "The info deal we broke with this man a week ago led to not only the identification and capture of several terrorist cells in the southern United States, but also gave us inroads into an alliance between Vales' rivals and a terrorist smuggling network.

The Director flicked the screen, and a freighter appeared next to a log of detailed notes. "In exchange, we were to allow this freighter to clear customs as it entered the United States. At the time, we had strong intel suggesting this freighter may be smuggling several containers of contraband and black-listed items – various drugs, banned furs, etc. – but no weapons or explosives. Last Friday the ship arrived in port," the Director pointed to an entry on the log, "and threw up red flags in customs for a mistake in paperwork. Ironically, the ship was caught without our assistance."

"They'll blame us, though." A balding man with wire glasses and no neck remarked. "If we can't hold up our end it sends bad messages and breaks trust – good luck getting anyone else to hand you intel in advance."

"Apparently, Vales had an insurance plan." The Director slid the disc across the table. "This is a ransom video. On Monday, Vales seized two citizens of New York City to force our hand. We either clear the ship by early tomorrow morning or lose the innocents."

"Are these people of any importance?" asked a hawkish woman near the far end.

Carson glanced in her direction. "If their importance as humans doesn't matter, remember we are sworn to protect all citizens of the United States, regardless of social stature."

The woman flicked a glance down her narrow nose. "I'm merely weighing the impact on our national security."

The Director touched the screen again, and a press picture of Richard Castle appeared alongside a file photo of Detective Katherine Beckett. Carson's eyes flashed several times between the Director and Castle's photo, but any striking similarities were blurred by time and differences of occupation. He satisfied himself with noting the generics - full head of hair, stark blue eyes, line of the jaw - and pressed the issue to the back of his mind. The video's power of suggestion had tainted his observation skills.

"One hostage is a popular murder mystery writer, the other is a well-respected police detective from the Twelfth Precinct of Manhattan," the Director continued. "Both disappeared in a white van Tuesday morning from the writer's apartment."

A large-framed man whose white dress shirt barely concealed his musculature leaned forward. "Even if we clear the freighter, are we trusting these Mexicans to simply release the hostages?"

The Director held up his hand. "We have a man on the ground."

The room was silent in surprise.

"A member of Vales' organization defected years ago and has been feeding us sporadic but reliable intel for several years. We don't know if he is at the hostage site, but several months ago he was assigned to a location in upstate New York. Chances are, he's close." The Director popped his jaw and began seesawing the pen between two fingers as he spoke. "At the time of his relocation, he informed us that Vales may have been contacted by a loosely-defined paramilitary organization interested in his smuggling network. From what we know, this organization works through liaisons to cut deals with drug cartels and swap information, weapons, dirty money, drugs, you name it."

Setting the pen down, the Director leaned his palms onto the table and gazed steadily at his subordinates. "I have little hard evidence to support this, but my gut says this paramilitary organization has been involved with the Vales deal all along, and my guess would be that that ship-" he pointed back to the screen, "is carrying more than high-end drugs and smugglers' contraband. Until we figure out exactly what is in those containers, we cannot clear it based on old intel."

The muscled man sat up and opened his palms over the table. "And risk two lives? What is this organization? Where's their file?" He glanced down and shuffled through his papers dramatically.

The Director shrugged. "They don't have an identity, a governing body, or a visible structure. I generally refer to them as the Org for lack of a better name. We do know they are a vague coalition of assassins with a remarkably high success rate. Recently, we have acquired a few international incident files that may be attributed to their actions. Most of their operations are within the United States and falls outside of our jurisdiction."

"So we need the files from the FBI," the balding man stated. "If this is who we're really dealing with."

The rest of the table looked at him in condescension.

"So we don't like them," he defended. "But isn't that the new protocol? Mutual exchange of information?"

The Director pushed off the table and began sliding papers to each person. "I'll deal with the FBI. Carson has drafted a plan of action; here are your assignments. Get involved with port authority and figure out what is on the freighter. Run every possible contact Vales has dealt with over the last several months and come up with profiles of persons that have possible Org connections. And Dawson-" he slid the last sheet towards the muscled agent and pointed towards a quiet man with an oversized mustache, "-get with hostage-brain over there and put together a task force and an approach plan, and have it ready to execute when I say when and where."

"Yessir." Dawson replied, but the Director was already moving away.

Back at his desk, the Director picked up his handset, hesitated, and set it down. Excavating the Detective's file from his folder, he flipped haphazardly through it with no discernible pattern, his leg bouncing restlessly beneath his desk. Turning to his computer, he flew through electronic files in similar disarray; searching, grabbing, dragging, and saving; his eyes cutting out bits of information as his mind pasted the pieces into a convoluted puzzle.

Three murders in an alley. A dead police captain he recognized. Names he hadn't seen in years: Pulgatti, Armen, Raglan. Bodies everywhere.

The Director picked up the receiver. "Carson. Get the FBI director on the line."

Slamming the receiver down, he removed his front desk drawer and used a common key to unlock a small compartment on the underside of his desk, allowing a medium-sized flat box to drop into his open palm. Yellowed papers, old microfilms, and a few sound recorders rested beside several flash drives and a handful of fingerprints pulled from various locations; all meticulously dated and documented. He'd learned to collect security for himself over the years; dirty information, compromising photographs, incriminating sound bites and loose ends. Reaching into the box, he selected a worn, bloodstained paper listing three columns of names.

There. And there. Coonan. Lockwood. Both names were present.

Flicking his eyes back to the computer, he checked the spellings against the police reports. Same guys. Both dead. One by Detective Beckett. And...yes, the FBI had been notified of her disappearance.

Shit, she was in hot water.

His phone blinked and toned softly.

"Pearson?" the Director inquired, headset pressed between his shoulder and his ear as he stowed the paper, reset the box, and replaced the drawer.

"Director," Pearson greeted. "National emergency?"

"No. Internal affairs."

"Oh?"

"Yeah," the Director sighed, "concerning a pet project of the FBI that grew a little too big for its leash."

The voice on the other line chuckled. "Don't we all have those budget-sucking whores."

The Director smiled thinly, wrapping and unwrapping the phone cord about his wrist. "You know, I've never really taken to phones. We never see faces anymore." Clearing aside a stack of files, he glanced over his schedule. "How about dinner?"

"What, today?"

"I'll fly to you. You pick the grub."

"No good: I've got a date with the wife-"

"So clear it, Pearson. I've got issues with your agency's initiative and it's time-sensitive."

"Which initiative?"

"_The initiative_, Pearson. The cancer that you're too yellow-bellied to touch."

Prickly silence echoed across the line. "Hope you like Mediterranean," Pearson bristled. "I've got reservations for two and I've already paid."

* * *

A/N: Sorry that it took four chapters to get here, folks. I really should have taken three months to write and edit the whole story first. Guess that's what publishers are for - to make you do all the steps. Yep.

But - now that we are here, things are getting interesting, I hope! Let me know what you think - reviews make my world go round! :)


	5. Chapter 5

Esposito stood tersely on a crowded corner outside a large Victoria's Secret, Ryan's phone ringing unanswered in his ear. Hanging up at the machine, he began walking merely to put his energy in motion, the white envelope tucked against him crinkling mockingly at the effort. He needed access to the NYPD database; he needed Ryan to stop screening his calls and answer his damn phone. He'd found a strange letter within the stolen envelope; it had sported a quirky letterhead stating "Chip off the Old Block" at the top of the page, and "_Specialty technology from storage to Beyond_" printed across the bottom. The message itself, addressed to Detective Katherine Beckett, was brutally short: in one sentence it both offered condolences for her mother's death and requested that the Detective settle her mother's account. The typed signature of a Melvin Ohm closed it abruptly.

It seemed out of place; an odd sock. Why would a manager be asking to settle an account thirteen years after the fact? And what services would Johanna have ordered from a specialty electronics store? Questions worth investigating, even if they didn't lead directly to Beckett and Castle. Seeing as he didn't have any other pressing items on his agenda – or, rather, since he no longer even had an agenda – he'd spent the afternoon canvassing computer stores and other techy joints around and between Johanna Beckett's law firm and Beckett's childhood residence. A few of the older, more eccentric computer wizards recognized the letterhead, and one even managed to dig out a yellowed address card with coffee stains dribbled across the front. In high hopes, Esposito had hailed yet another cab, emptied the last of his cash, and directed the cabbie to the corner of Lexington and 58th, where he had found a Victoria's Secret instead of the reward for his efforts. The afternoon was gone, and he was back at square one, holding a letter that seemed less and less important with each passing moment.

His phone chimed and he had it up against his ear before the first ring had finished. "Bro, seriously," he chided sharply.

"Hey, sorry," Ryan replied.

"Am I suspended from your department too?"

"Look," Ryan defended, "Gates has had all of us tied up with tactics and FBI protocols all afternoon. No way was I going to answer my phone during the briefing."

"Great. Glad she's doing something productive," Esposito snarked. "Look, I need you run a name."

"From where?"

"I'm just diggin'. It's a guy named Melvin Ohm – used to run a computer store called 'Chip off the Old Block.' I need a number, or – better – his current residence." Esposito said.

"Give me a bit. I'll call you back," Ryan muttered. "You onto something?"

"Probably nothing. Let me know."

When Ryan called back, it was much later, and he insisted on riding along to the interview. The setting sun cast a subtle tint across the steel horizon by the time Ryan swung by to pick up Esposito, and the street lights were just beginning to cast shadows on the pedestrian flow below. Ryan's face iced over momentarily when Esposito explained the envelope, but he said nothing and nudged forward into traffic.

"They get anything yet?" Esposito asked after several long moments.

"Not really." Ryan flicked his eyes off the road to look at his partner. "We know they're out of the city though. Drove them upstate."

Any hope Esposito had been harboring turned to lead in his stomach. A group taking them that far from the city was very organized, with very definite plans; most likely ending very badly for Beckett and their boy. He twitched his cheek. Melvin Ohm and his specialty computer store suddenly seemed excruciatingly insignificant.

"Why'd you come?" Esposito abruptly vocalized. "You should be staying in the loop up there in case something breaks."

"Because," he shrugged, eyes steady on the lights before him.

"Oh, no. No way. Stop the car, because I am not letting you be my _babysitter_." Esposito said, pointing ahead to an opening near the corner. "And does she pay you hourly, or do you just keep a running tab?"

Ryan set his jaw and accelerated through the intersection. "You are over the line, Javi."

"I can't even look at you right now," Esposito said, turning away.

Ryan's fist slammed the wheel. "Dammit! You're my _partner_ and that means we go in together. Gates was breathing down my neck and yes, I told her I was following a lead – _from an anonymous tip._ Told her it was probably nothing and I'd check it out on my way home. Alright?"

"Brilliant. Now she has our location, and our destination, and anything else we find out."

"Is our partnership seriously that shallow to you?" Ryan countered incredulously. "You trust me that little? If it weren't for me following my gut, Beckett would have _died_, Javi," he emphasized, jabbing his finger into the wheel. "Dead. On your watch."

"Yeah well she's dead anyway if you keep broadcasting our every move to god knows who!"

"You've got trust issues."

"And you live in a delusional bubble," Esposito retorted, checking his weapon as Ryan parked in front of a low-rent apartment complex. Exiting the car before his partner could even cut the engine, he strode off towards the apartment landing.

Five floors up and one down from the top, Esposito banged on a pale green door and strained his ears for the sound of approaching footsteps. The hall's dark carpeting had a skunk-like appearance from thousands of footsteps channeled through the middle, and hundreds of moving crews and furniture dollies had decorated the walls with alternating patterns of black scuffs and deep nicks. Ryan came up behind him, subconsciously standing in a flanking position off of his left shoulder.

"No answer?" Ryan asked.

Esposito went to knock again but drew back when he heard a shuffling on the other side. The door opened to a small man; wrinkled and hunched with a tremble in his arms.

"Melvin Ohm?" Esposito inquired.

The man nodded unblinkingly, one hand fidgeting nervously in the pocket of his over-sized cardigan.

"We're detectives from the NYPD," Esposito said, fumbling for a badge that wasn't there. "And we would like to ask you a few questions concerning a letter you wrote."

The old man's eyes never moved from Esposito's face as he pushed the door wider and shuffled back and to the side, but Esposito's gaze focused on the man's hand, still concealed in his pocket. With his attention set in the foreground, he failed to see the man crouched behind a planter in the background, gun leveled at the door.

Ryan's weight knocked Esposito to the side an instant before two shots pinged out from across the room. The report was muted by a silencer; but the tandem whump of two slugs flattening into Ryan's chest roared through Esposito's mind. Part of his mind watched his partner stagger backwards and begin to collapse; the other part brought his own gun up to fire blindly through the doorway in a horizontal hail of bullets. He didn't care what he hit. He didn't care who. He cared only that his voice of sanity was silenced on the ground, and that he couldn't lose another brother to these killers.

Ryan was still exposed, lying motionless on the floor with his back to Esposito. In a split decision, Esposito tumbled across the open door and fired two more shots into the room before grabbing Ryan's collar in one hand and his waistband in the other, dragging him a few feet from the doorway to relative safety. The brief glance he had stolen into the room during his tumble revealed the old man face down on the ground and the gunman moving across the room.

"NYPD!" Esposito shouted, gun ready as he crouched against the wall near the doorframe, fingers fumbling for Ryan's pulse. "Put down your weapons!" One part of his brain calculated his options; the other screamed at him that Ryan was dead or dying. Ripping the radio from Ryan's belt, he called in a desperate 10-13 for "officer down" and spun his attention back towards the entryway, half-expecting the end of a muzzle in his face. Most his magazine was spent; he was going to need Ryan's piece if the gunman was going to fight his way out.

A hoarse croak came from inside the room, followed by a cough.

"Mr. Ohm?" he called around the door.

"He's out – the window, here."

"How many are there?"

"One – just one," the old man stammered.

"And you saw him exit through which window?"

"East side."

"Stay down," Esposito charged, then raised his voice. "This is the NYPD, put your weapons down and your hands above your head!" he shouted, moving his gun into the doorway. No shots rang out, and he hesitantly craned his neck to see around the door. The old man was huddled on the floor in front of his couch; but nothing else moved throughout the apartment, and the eastside window stood open. Standing to full height, Esposito turned his body sideways and swept his gun across potential hiding spots as he edged around the door frame, exposing himself slightly in order to provide better cover for the resident. Satisfied another bullet wasn't going to find either of them immediately, he motioned towards the old man and stood with trigger finger poised until the resident had crawled out his door and into the hall.

One glance showed no blood on the hostage, so Esposito used his free hand to grab at Ryan's shoulder and roll him over, his throat already closing as he braced for the sight. Two perfect bullet holes were seared into the white fabric of his shirt; but that was all. Ryan was clean. Frantic, Esposito flipped back Ryan's jacket and grabbed at his shirt, feeling the coarse canvas of a Kevlar vest scrape across his knuckles. Ripping at the buttons, he tore down the shirt until he could access the velcro straps and release the mangled vest.

"Let's go, bro," Esposito muttered, slapping Ryan's ashen face. "Breathe."

It took only two chest compressions before Ryan sucked wind and snapped cloudy eyes his direction, heaving a long growl of pain as he writhed onto his side.

"This is…why we have partners," Ryan bit out around another sobbing breath of air, simultaneously landing a weak punch to Esposito's thigh.

Sirens wailed beneath them, and Esposito felt suddenly weak, the pistol too heavy in his hand. He glanced at the old man and thought to ask him if he was alright; the man swallowed and nodded, lifting a trembling hand from his pocket.

"Do you know Detective Beckett?" he asked.

"Yes," Esposito affirmed, reaching for the small black device extended by the thin hand. "What's this?"

"A data reader," the wavering man replied. "Engineered for the microchip buried in Johanna Beckett's ring."

* * *

He was a Director at the Central Intelligence Agency. He believed in rules. He believed in law, in justice, and in a right and a wrong – they were beautiful systems that kept the United States productive and successful in an unsteady world; systems he had sworn to preserve and defend. And long ago, he had stepped outside of those systems to ensure order and law would be preserved beyond tomorrow. Justice was slow, and he was her expediter; she was pure, and he bore the blood on his own hands to preserve that purity.

His actions were guided not by the laws he defended, but by his own self-governance; by principles compiled into to three guiding standards he'd sworn never to compromise. First, to always act in the best interests of his country. Secondly, to never leave a job unfinished. And thirdly, to never, ever mix personal affairs with business. The last principle he had broken once early in his career, and the consequences of that breach had rammed an eternal crack through his personal armor. A crack that he could never bring himself to mend, and because of that weakness, he was now at the crossroads of breaking the same principles again.

The Director's helicopter shuttled him down the Potomac River on the way to Washington, DC in eerie tranquility, the soft beat of the rotors adding rhythm to the passing time. Two cities stretched away from him on either side of the river's banks, filled with people he never saw. He'd expended so much of his life protecting them from foreign threats that he had forgotten they were vulnerable here at home, as well. That in the shadow of a snarling dragon, the people's first line of defense could do little in their blue uniforms and bright squad cars but gnaw wearily at the net of evil cast about them.

Rarely did the Director rub shoulders with the police; but of the few encounters he'd had, one particular night had always remained with him. That night in New York City nearly twenty years ago, when his CIA command line had unofficially sent him to find a hit man for a certain problem that couldn't be handled legally. The night he was scheduled to meet Joe Pulgatti and pick up a few referrals for men that could get the job done. And the night he'd first found out about the Alpha Initiative, when he'd accidentally walked out on Bob Armen exchanging papers with a Special Forces soldier in the alley behind the Sons of Palermo – a Special Forces soldier who had reportedly been killed in combat the previous year. Not only that, but several days prior, the Director had snooped through Pulgatti's FBI files and found an official order to Armen specifically instructing him to be absent from that specific alley for the evening.

When the cops had burst through the back door dragging a struggling Pulgatti behind them, a startled Armen went to save his cover by lunging for one of the kidnappers, ingesting a lethal bullet instead. The undead soldier had disappeared before Armen hit the ground, and the Director had dropped to check the agent's vitals; he'd died instantly. As chaos erupted around him, the Director had slipped a hand under Armen's coat, snagged the paper given to him by the soldier, and melted into the darkness.

He never told his superiors about the undead soldier or the list he'd lifted from Armen. He found information to be more valuable than bullets – a tiny shard of intel, aptly timed, gave give him more power than a small army. In the months that followed, he'd carefully and systematically researched every name he found on that list: mostly military assassins and FBI officers with a handful of politicians and a few high-up staff from the judicial department sprinkled in. And gradually, the pieces began to assemble. The FBI had long craved for a more effective, expedited method of crime fighting; and when they couldn't find it, they created it. The CIA had international mobsters. The FBI had the Alpha Initiative.

The Director's bird touched down almost imperceptibly on the Pentagon's helipad; moments later the Director had been assigned a chauffeur and was headed across the Potomac into the heart of the nation's capital. Sliding his phone out, he dialed for Pearson and waited through several secretaries until Pearson's voice crackled over the line, significantly less friendly than before.

"Pearson, where's dinner? –I hope the wife didn't mind," The Director added, unable to suppress the slight twist of his lip. He had never understood how a man in Pearson's position could be married to anything other than the job.

"Oh, not at all," Pearson leveled carefully, "I never changed the plans."

"Ah – word finally moved through the grape vine, did it?"

Pearson snorted. "More like I plan on taking my wife to Komi and I don't care to spend several hundred dollars on your poor pallet and pithy conversation. Whatever you have to say won't take the course of a meal."

The Director bristled lightly. "I say little when my words are digitized into recordable packets, _Piss'n_. And I'm not chatting in your office for equal reason."

"Fine. Make it the Jefferson Memorial and I'll see you in ten," Pearson replied, abruptly ending the call.

He arrived first and read through several panels of stone inscribed with Jefferson's words. The old diction sounded hollow and strange to him; like viewing the relics of a bygone era. No one thought as those ancient lawmakers anymore; no one believed in a God whose Justice would not sleep forever, or of rights that were endowed by a Creator. Justice belonged to those who crafted her from the chaos men found themselves within, and rights belonged to those who could keep them. The Director paused when he reached the familiar lines of the Declaration of Independence, lingering for a moment over the words _pursuit of happiness. _He wasn't sure he even understood what that meant anymore.

"So," Pearson's voice breached his train of thought. "You need my help."

The Director snorted and turned from the wall. "If it helps you to think of it that way, sure. But you'll find it's the other way around."

The FBI director was several inches shorter than the Director; his small but compact build annunciated by the lines of his suit as his cool grey eyes met the Director's smirk. "I'm in a hurry, Director, so if you wouldn't mind spitting out whatever it is that requires this whole secret bubble, we may end on a much better note."

"I need you to call off your dogs."

Pearson glared at him vehemently for omitting the context.

It was what he had hoped for; the Director wanted him on edge; wanted him guessing. He knew Pearson had some influence on the Initiative; just how much was the dangerous unknown in his mind. If he played it right, his hostages may have a whole new level of protection; if he showed his hand too early, everything he'd worked for in his relationship with the Mexicans would be undone, along with the lives of two hostages. "Undoubtedly, Pearson, you now know about my little hostage crisis in New York," he explained.

"I know you made a really stupid gamble with a Mexican gang that was a little too competent for your plans," Pearson remarked snidely.

"On the contrary, I believe their competency went far beyond their capabilities," the Director defended. "And since _your_ agency lost control of the Alpha Initiative, it's your prerogative to rein them back."

Pearson clenched his jaw, the corners of his eyes tightening. "I have nothing to do with them."

"Who's the one delaying the conversation now, Pearson?"

"Look. I was still pounding pavement when they launched the Initiative; they were almost completely autonomous by the time I stepped in. They were never supposed to be able to take that step; it was designed that they would be restrained by the Agency's purse strings," Pearson explained.

"But a smart lawyer followed up on the word of one of his assassins, and a few guilt-ridden cops were blackmailed into turning over a load of ransom payments which became the seed money for their autonomous support structure – built right into the fabric of the very criminal organizations you fight so hard to destroy."

Pearson took two steps forward and grabbed the Director's upper arm, face close. "How do you know this?"

"Indeed, how do I?" The Director parroted back, cocking his head in mock curiosity.

"I can't control them. They killed, turned, or blackmailed my network of undercover agents in New York when they toppled every crime boss that wouldn't cooperate under their terms."

"Yes; Cavallo. I know."

Pearson's eyes flicked his direction.

"And I also know that when the FBI needs a 911, they still run to their bastard son."

"Cute." Pearson bit out, lips curled into a snarl. "But if you're threatening me, I've got enough evidence from your stellar career to bury you a mile deep."

"So, then, how about we leave the Justice Department out of it and be civil about this? You guarantee the safety of my hostages, and I won't blow the whistle on your pet monster."

The grey eyes of the FBI director shot back and forth across his antagonist's, gauging; measuring; weighing. "No. You've got no evidence behind this. I put pressure on them concerning your hostages, and I'll be deposed of my position within a month, if not dead before that. Your hostages are not my problem."

The Director internally winced. He'd hoped to secure a win by now; hoped to protect his hostages without revealing his secret to the Initiative. So, once again, it came down to a matter of principle. He could let Pearson off the hook, release the boat, and gamble with the lives of the hostages in order to finish the Mexican job and keep business as business; or he could play his last card and risk breaking both standards in one moment – all for that one crack in his armor.

"Alright;" the Director growled, heat coloring his ears from the conflict within. "If you're too much of a fucking coward to take them on, then I will. Grow a pair and relay this message, Pearson, or I'll be deposing you before they do." The Director switched from badgering to intimidation, stepping up chest to chest against the shorter man to give full advantage to his height. "They want something that went missing twenty years ago from the body of Bob Armen," he hissed, bearing down on the FBI director. "And if they don't return those hostages in a Ferrari with a bottle of champagne when I release that boat, that information will be made conveniently available to every bloodthirsty lawsuit waiting for a lucky break."

Pearson couldn't keep his balance any longer; he stepped back stiffly with a carefully blank face. "You have the list?" he asked.

The Director thought of the bloody paper hidden in his desk. "What list?" he asked mockingly, then smiled and began stepping backwards in dismissal. "Boat for hostages," he said, seesawing his hands as if he were weighing the air over his palms. "And I won't give a damn about your Initiative." Turning on a heel, he left Pearson standing alone under the steady stare of Jefferson's stony visage.

* * *

A/N: Sorry for the later update - tell me how you liked it! I know it didn't deal with poor Beckett and Castle - we get back to them next chapter.

I have to admit, I'm a little frustrated with myself and how this is going. I feel like I had this great idea that I'm steadily butchering...I know exactly where I want this to go, but I'm not sure I'm writing a very engaging story. Maybe I'm focusing too much on events and I just need to put a little more heart into it; a few more internal dialogues; more emotional grabbers. I don't know. I feel like this is a story that needed to be written in its entirety and then edited ten times before it could accomplish everything I had planned.

Welp. Let me know if I'm boring you to death - I keep thinking the pace will pick up but I'm not sure it feels like it is. Next chapter should be good though - what happens when Ghost finds out who Beckett really is, and Vales reaches the end of his rope? How will Castle handle it when he's separated from his love? Stay tuned... :)


	6. Chapter 6

Um...my apologies.

Merry Christmas. :)

* * *

The Director spent the night researching at the kitchen table of a safe-house in D.C., catching himself up on the now-outdated list he'd pulled from the body of Bob Armen. The last time he'd paid this much attention to the list was when he'd heard rumors about "Cavallo" in New York, of "Hook" in Chicago, and of "Huero" in Los Angeles. Back when the Initiative had gone rogue and crafted a touchy relationship with the established crime networks, using them to traffic guns, explosives, and cash, while providing anonymous hits and high-profile connections. Initially, most of the crime bosses were resistant; but after the mob boss massacres in New York City, only a few held out against their proposals.

New York City. Somehow, his path always led back to New York City.

Near midnight, the safe-house door chimed. The Director pushed away from his computer and swept a standard Beretta handgun off the counter, hugging the walls on his way to the front hall. He knew who he was dealing with.

It was just a courier. He carried the package into the kitchen, noted it was from his own office under Carson's name, and slit it open from the side. Inside was a thick stack of papers - Carson's briefing on the team's progress. The Director reseated himself at the computer and began skimming, absently swinging a loose cord against his calf.

The task force was prepared and standing by. Contact with the informant from Vales' gang had not yet been established. Three persons connected to Vales had strong possible ties to the Initiative, but one - a thirty-something computer programmer suspected of hacking government databases and wanted for the abduction of his sister - seemed the most likely candidate. And a clandestine, off-the record scan of the freighter revealed a cargo of grain, textiles, a few illegal furs, and a smattering of drugs.

But they'd also found a container that gave readings for military-grade explosives, and what looked like may be assault rifles.

Shit.

The stakes had just changed. If he cleared the boat now, he would be putting the interests of his country second to the lives of the hostages, as well as openly acting in an illegal manner by blatantly assisting in the armament of a criminal organization. On the other hand, if he officially seized the boat, he'd have two dead hostages and a lot of hot water to wade through. He'd already played his last hand; by now, someone in the Initiative knew that he held the list and would be taking measures to ensure he never had a chance to take it to court. He had nothing left with which to bargain.

Damn New York City and that crack in his armor.

Where was Carson's naïve morality when he needed it? He had been swimming in muddy waters for so long that he no longer knew right from wrong.

The Director tossed the papers across the tabletop and poured himself a glass of scotch before wandering through the tiny apartment. This was technically a non-issue. He'd let hostages die before, when the interests of their country, and yes, perhaps his career, were at stake. He could, and should, do it again for the exact same reasons.

He entered the bedroom and stopped, halfway to the bed. A strong nostalgia came over him; memories of a month spent in that damn City - forty, maybe forty-five? years ago during an early assignment of which he had no recollection. No, his memories were of theaters and clubs and a personality larger than the world she lived in. Of a dark room and white sheets, of hair like fire and skin like pure cream. He could still remember the way the city lights gilded her curls the night he left; how the sheets lapped about her like sea foam folding over the shore.

No. These hostages could not die.

He needed more leverage.

Whirling out of the room, The Director resumed researching, tracking, attempting to trace the convoluted web of connections within the Initiative - and just as the first commuters were struggling from their beds, he found his pressure point. A senator, from New York City, running for re-election with a past steeped in aid from the Initiative. Ripe for blackmail.

He retrieved a burner phone and dialed the man's personal number three times before a groggy voice answered the opposing line.

"Good morning, Senator," The Director said, "this is an anonymous call from a concerned citizen. I suggest you pay attention."

* * *

Beckett had taken awhile to fall asleep - he knew because he had dozed off and woken again to the feel of her fingers delicately tracing his knuckles, over and over in the darkness. Vales' actions must have shaken her more than she would admit. She was lying stretched out on her back with her head bolstered by his thigh, his cuffed hands slack over one collarbone. Using his knee to lift her head, Castle bent to wet her lips with his own, a caress and reassurance both. He felt the tension of her shoulders release, and her soft exhale rippled the air between them. As he parted to pull away, her fingers touched his jaw to draw him back, her lips broken and soft. A moment later her breath choked in her throat, so slight that he felt it more than heard it, and he scooted down to gather her up, wrapping about her like a weighted blanket, squeezing tightly to give her security, reality, something to hold it all together. He held her there, his breath warming her temple, until she unspooled in his embrace, letting the thread of her consciousness finally slip away.

Hunger pains roused him. He pressed his lips thin as the cramps rolled through him again; they'd been given bread at some point too long ago to remember. The darkness warped time into another dimension; his memories were jagged silhouettes of a life with no context. He pressed his hands to his face; lifted them off and strained to see his own fingers; touched his eyelids to be sure they were open. He wondered if he'd lost reality altogether.

"We need to get out of here," he said, reassured by the feel and sound of his own voice.

Beckett stirred at his side, extending her arms across him as she stretched her muscles with a soft clink of steel. "Hm. I hadn't thought of that."

He wished he could see the sardonic expression accompanying her tone. Gathering himself up off the floor, he straightened slowly, resenting the hard tile and narrow space. "Are you wearing a watch?"

"Yes, but good luck reading it," she replied, her voice drifting from an unnatural height. She must have moved to sit on the counter. "And I've checked - there is only one way out."

"How many bolts?" Castle asked absently, walking on stiff joints towards the door.

"Three -Castle!" She hissed, realizing where he had gone. "There's a guard!"

Castle found the knob, slid his fingertips upwards to confirm the three bolts and across until he found the hinge side of the door. From top to bottom, the seam was smooth and uninterrupted, flush against the doorjamb. The hinges were on the opposite side. He flattened an ear to the door and listened momentarily before finally turning away.

"I've checked the whole room," Beckett said. "The door is the only way out."

"Are you eight feet tall?" Castle asked, looking upwards into the nothingness.

"You know, I actually don't like it when you ask rhetorical questions." Beckett said, then paused, catching his meaning. "You could just say 'let's check the ceiling.'"

"I could," Castle smiled, "but then I wouldn't be a best-selling mystery writer dating New York's hottest."

"Dating?" Beckett echoed, her outstretched hand finding his shoulder and forcefully turning him around. "Hold still." she commanded, holding him against the counter to steady herself. "One night with a girl and you call it dating?" she muttered as she climbed onto his shoulders. He grabbed a fistful of pantleg as she threw a leg over one shoulder, staggering forward slightly as she pushed a little too hard off the countertop. His joined hands allowed him to only grip one leg at a time, and her other leg flailed against his ribs a few times until she locked her ankles and snagged his hair for balance.

"I'd say we've been mutually exclusive since then," Castle glossed, old insecurities rising again. Her elbow banged his ear. "You think we'd be good at this by now," Castle grumbled from between her thighs.

"Funny; I always seem to miss you in the gym," Beckett said, clamping her legs tighter about his neck as she released his hair and shot her hands upwards to press against the ceiling.

"Was that a plea for a gym partner?" He retorted, walking slowly to adjust to her movements as she ran her hands back and forth across the ceiling.

"The point is to _increase_ fitness, Castle," she barbed. "Ho-stop! I think I found something."

He stopped, starting to feel the compression in his spine. Fitness definitely needed to increase. At her warning, he braced himself as she punched upwards and was rewarded with the feeling of grit peppering his hair.

"There was a weak spot left by a water leak," she grunted as more dust and grime rained downwards. "And if I can just..." she trailed off, a ripping sound marking her progress.

Her weight had just lifted off his shoulders as she climbed into the ceiling when a blow to the back of his knees sent Castle crumpling against the wall. He hadn't even heard the deadbolts disengage. Beckett hollered at him, her irritation at his disappearance escalating into a surprised shriek as she was yanked down on top of him. A moment of confusion ensued before the guards hauled them to their feet and out of the makeshift prison, manhandling them down the stairs to the concrete room where Castle had first entered the cabin.

The gloom of the basement seemed bright compared to the windowless bathroom. Ghost stood to the side of two high-backed armchairs angled at each other, a thin hand gesturing towards a stuffed cushion. "Please, sit," he indicated, staring at Beckett. Castle hesitated, noting Vales leaning in the corner across the room, several of his henchmen on the floor with their knees jutting at harsh angles and cigarettes smoldering.

"Sit," Ghost repeated, no longer a request.

Beckett and Castle both stepped forward, but Ghost intercepted Castle mid-stride with a palm to his shoulder, redirecting him towards the wall.

"I need a word with your girlfriend," Ghost said, his bony fingers digging into the hollow of Castle's shoulder. "Without your input." He pushed Castle against the wall, holding him at arm's length and pinning him with a hooded stare. "Understood?" he said quietly.

Castle felt a passive terror freeze his limbs, and his eyes unwittingly fell away.

This is it, he thought. This is where we both die.

_Because he doesn't care. My father doesn't care. I'm not worth my own life._

Beckett, still standing in uncertainty, immediately sat down when Ghost turned his eyes on her.

Ghost walked to her chair, stopped, pivoted, and indicated to one of the men slouched against the opposite wall. The man stepped up and pressed a manila folder into his waiting palm.

"Kate-" Ghost started, but stopped as he opened the folder. "-or rather, Detective Beckett- " he corrected, beginning to lay the folder's contents face-down on the ground in front of her. "It seems that at times, a bird from the bush yields two in the hand."

Castle squirmed on the wall, working his already raw wrists against the cuffs until he felt blood beginning to slick his fingers. This was supposed to be about him. Not about her.

"If you had a case," Ghost continued, closing the folder on the last few papers still remaining, "without witnesses, leads, or motive," he began slowly turning over the papers on the ground, one by one, as he spoke.

Castle couldn't see what was printed from where he stood, but he could see Beckett's face go blank, still, expressionless. The look he occasionally witnessed when he pressed her about her mother's case.

Ghost turned over another page and the skin beneath Beckett's eye twitched. "But you knew you could solve it, if only you could find that crucial piece of information, that break that scatters all the clouds and sets everything right again - if you knew you could do it - how far would you go? To solve that case?"

Castle inched across the wall, slowly, soundlessly. He could see the last page now, just as Ghost was flipping it over. Beckett's mother, slouched in the alley, a crimson flood across her blue blouse, hands limp upon the concrete.

Beckett said nothing, but Ghost continued unperturbed. "What if I could give you that break?" he said, crouching down behind the morbid collage with an intensely open expression. "What if you could have closure? Settlement? Justice?"

Castle felt ice melting into his chest, dripping down his ribs, pooling in his gut. Exactly what was at stake here?

Ghost drew another paper from the folder and extended it to Beckett, his eyes never leaving her face. "Your mother spent a year building a case, but it never reached the court."

Beckett's hands didn't move from her lap.

"Do you know what this is, detective?" Ghost asked, fluttering the paper slightly, still offering it forward. "Do you?" he waited, then lowered his voice. "Answer me."

Beckett twitched her head a negative.

"It's a list of the sources your mother consulted to compile her case. Databases she was given access to, organizations she investigated; off-the-record, high-profile persons she interviewed," Ghost explained. "The tracks in the snow. All you have to do is follow in her footsteps - which," he added, "you were going to do anyway, up until her senseless, sickening murder, weren't you?"

"Who are you?" Beckett's words were so quiet Castle had to read her lips to catch their meaning.

Ghost retracted the list of sources, eyes burning. "Someone not so different from yourself," he whispered. Rapidly snatching another paper, he flicked it out for Beckett to see. "My twin sister." he said roughly in explanation. "Tell me, Kate - did they come after you for your mother's blood? Did they set you on trial, put a collar on your ankle, damn you for a crime you could never have even _conceived_ of?" Ghost spun the photo into Beckett's lap. Castle glimpsed the portrait of a young girl about Alexis' age; all big, sea-grey eyes and long black hair.

"Going underground was my only choice, Kate." Ghost murmured. "The Law would not give me justice."

Beckett lifted the edges of the photo and stared at it. "How do I know you're not lying?" she asked.

"Because I've seen your file. Because you're not a typical cop. Because she and I used to pretend we were birds, and I'd call her Raven, and she'd call me Hawk, and we would wrap ourselves in the linens drying at the top of our complex and fly around the roof and forget about the rest of the world. Because I still climb those old stairs and look at the stars, and promise her I will not rest until I find her."

"She's not dead." Beckett noted.

"No. She went missing just over five years ago."

Beckett let the photo fall limp in her fingers. "I can't help you here. Let me go, and I'll see what I can do. I promise you that."

Ghost took the portrait back from her. "No." He held up her mother's photo beside his sisters'. "Remarkably, these paths converge. I'm very close to finding my sister," he said, the photo crinkling slightly with the force of his grip. "But I need leverage. Negotiating power. And you can give it to me."

Castle saw Beckett's brow drop momentarily in uncertainty.

Ghost stood up, replacing the files. "Your mother built a case," he said forcefully, shaking the folder with each syllable in front of Beckett's face. "A detailed, comprehensive case that would have changed her career forever. Those case files are my salvation. And I need you to tell me where they are."

Beckett's eyes shifted from Ghost's face to the manila folder and back, searching for clues. "They don't exist-" she said haltingly into the silence. "- we found only bits and pieces - she had just begun."

"Don't play with me, Kate." Ghost shook out the list of sources and contacts he had offered earlier. "Look at the extent of this list. I have over a dozen reasons why I'm right. She had massive amounts of information. And I guarantee you, she was close to taking it to court." Ghost suddenly leaned in, one hand on each armrest. "Where are those files?"

"I don't know." Beckett measured out. "I looked, and there was nothing. If there were any files, they were stolen or modified long before I had a chance to look into it."

Ghost pushed away, regarding her. "You know what I think, Detective?" He said in a chilled tone, calculating. "I think you do know where they are. But I think you trust the law about as much as I do, and you've been biding your time, sitting on the evidence and wrapping up the details until you can exact full vengeance."

Beckett held his stare, her lips pressed together until they were thin lines. "No," she finally whispered. "You're wrong."

Beckett's personal murder board flashed to the front of Castle's mind, along with her distrust of Gates and a rooftop where she had nearly lost her life because of a personal vendetta. Ghost was good. Really good.

"Stop telling me I'm wrong, Kate. If you don't know their location, explain to me why one of your partners died yesterday protecting the man who helped your mother hide those files."

"What?" Beckett's chin snapped up. Castle shivered, feeling the hairs on his neck prickle. Dead? Who?

Ghost thumbed through the few files still left in the folder, finally drawing one out. Beckett lurched to her feet and snatched it from his hand, staring in disbelief, anger sprouting in her eyes. "What is this?" she growled.

"A still from a security feed. I believe that is - yes - Detective Ryan on the ground. And the man huddled against the wall looks an awful lot like Detective Esposito." Ghost stepped close enough so his chest bumped the fingers Beckett had clenched about the photo. "I hear they pulled two slugs from his chest," he said, goading her.

She took the bait. Slamming her fists into his sternum, she shrieked. "Who killed him, dammit! You?" She spun away from Ghost and faced Vales, lurking in his corner. "Or you?!"

Ghost yanked her shoulder around and threw her back into the chair. "It doesn't matter, Beckett. Where are those files?"

"_I don't know,_"she yelled back, fingernails digging into the fabric of the armchair.

Ghost flicked out another photo and held it up. His voice was calm again, controlled, patient. "They were defending this Melvin Ohm. He designed an electronic lock-box, if you will; a secured data chip for your mother to hide information. I'll play along for a moment and assume you don't know where it is. But you're a detective, Detective; so detect. Where would your mother have stored that chip?"

Beckett fumed, breathing erratically. She shook her head. "I don't know."

Castle peeled off the wall and took a careful step forward. "Please - sorry - but she really doesn't know," he said, extending his palms upward in conciliation. "Neither of us has a clue what you are talking about."

Ghost took a few quick strides and kneed Castle in the groin before Castle even realized his intentions. A few more blows to the gut, and he felt himself being dragged towards the chairs.

"If you knew you could solve your case, how far would you go?" Ghost said to Beckett, locking his arm about Castle's neck. "Work with me, and I will give you the final keys to your puzzle. Stonewall, and you'll pray for death. Because either way, Detective, I will find those files, and I will stop at _nothing_ to save my sister."

Stuffed into Ghost's armpit, Castle could see little but the floor and Ghosts' shoes - a pair of expensive Dockers - but he could imagine the raw tension aging Beckett's face, the vein in her forehead raging beneath her skin. Her voice was protesting, pleading above him, and Ghost's thin voice resonated against his ear in response.

"There are three places to sever a man's spine, Kate. One takes away the use of his legs. One of his arms. The other paralyzes his lungs and stops his heart. How far I go is up to you."

Castle could feel the long edge of a knife against his throat. Time slowed down as his mind kicked into overdrive, processing impossibly fast. He could be dead, mangled, or merely scratched, depending on his actions in the next few moments.

"Wait, stop - alright!" Beckett's voice was broken, frantic. "I'll tell you - just please - let him go. Please."

The knife edge eased off his skin, but the relief was short lived. Castle felt the hilt blunt into the back of his skull so that his face bounced against Ghost's upcoming thigh. His nose raged a searing fire across his face; an acid that cracked his nerves and curled his skin in smoldering layers. Sound roared in his ears, and he needed air - but he was yelling, screaming, using up all the air so that the room dimmed, narrowed, and faded to black.

His hearing revived first; there were rough voices farther away, and Beckett's soft murmurs close beside him. A moment later he could see her hair, like an angel's, a curtain to his vision as she leaned over him with dark and tortured eyes. She had her fingers splayed around his head, her palms cradling his skull, and he could hear his name tumbling from her lips in the litany of whispers she used to bring him back to her.

And oh damn, he wanted to rip his face off for the amount of pain it was giving him.

"Where is he-?" Castle wondered thickly.

"Sh...!" Beckett urged, replying in a hushed tone. "He took a call." She sounded confused, hopeful.

Castle blinked, focused, and blurred again as his eyes watered with a fresh wave of pain. Something was pooling in his throat; he coughed and tasted the sweet bitterness of his own blood. Beckett's hands were on his shoulders; pushing, turning him so he was forced to prop himself up on his side and let his nose drain outwards instead of inwards.

By the time he regained enough balance to maneuver into a sitting position, Ghost came striding through the door with dead eyes that were hard as stone.

"Let the writer go." he ordered.

Vales nearly jumped off the wall. "_¡vete a la chingada!_" he shouted, waving his arms. "Like hell, you son of bitch! What about my boat?"

"Game's changed, Cesar. No boat."

"The deal was guns for hostage. I got the hostage. I want my guns." Vales ordered.

Ghost sighed and drew his gun on Vales. "Circumstances have changed," he bit out, nodding towards Castle. "Gallego, load him up and drive him into some town between here and Manhattan. Make sure he will be conveniently found; alive and unharmed."

"There is no way," Castle grated, sounding more confident than he felt, "that I'm going anywhere without her. Release us both."

Beckett startled beside him, jerking her eyes to his. "You have a daughter," she hissed softly.

"That is not your choice to make, Ricky," Ghost smiled, then raised his voice to address the room. "In fact, each of you should carefully weigh your own choices," he said. "My employer will be here in a short time to retrieve me and the girl. The deal is over."

All of Vales' men were on their feet, guns trained on Ghost, eyes on Vales.

Ghost leveled his gaze at Vales. "You can either comply and continue business as usual, without our interference, or –" he cocked his pistol, "you can lose it all. Killing me would be merely a temporary victory."

Vales steamed at Ghost and signaled for Gallego to comply. The guard strode towards Castle. From across the room, another guard stepped forward, and Vales looked sharply at him. The guard hefted his gun. "One for driver, one for watching," he said thickly. Vales looked to Ghost, and Ghost nodded in compliance.

Castle tensed for a fight, but Beckett laid a hand on his arm. "Go," she whispered. "Get out of here."

"No; I'm not leaving you –"

Her hands braced his cheeks, and her lips touched his own. He could taste the salt of her tears. "For Alexis," she whispered, "because it hurts too much to grow up alone." And pushing away, she lunged to her feet, out of his grasp.

The guards cuffed his ankles before he had time to recover, and with nowhere to go, overwhelmed by the odds, he resigned himself to stuttering her name over and over, unexpressed emotion shredding his chest as he was dragged from the cabin into the parking lot, a van waiting to carry him home.

Less than twenty minutes down the road, the guard watching Castle turned his barrel on Gallego and ordered him to pull over. A heated argument broke out before the van slowed and stopped, and Castle was tossed a key with which to free himself. Moments later, it was Gallego who was cuffed to the floor of the van, and the defected guard was punching a number into his phone.

"My name is Felix." The guard greeted as he raised the phone to his ear. "I know you father."

* * *

A/N: So, I haven't given up on this story. A lot of life has been getting in the way. But - I hope you liked this latest installment - it's been a long time in coming, I know. And what will happen to our sacrificial Beckett, facing Ghost and Vales alone? A good reason to sign up for a story alert! Reviews, anyone? Are you glad I'm continuing or are you totally over it by now?


	7. Chapter 7

Castle spun the handcuff key through his fingers as Felix spoke an incoherent stream of Spanish to the voice on the other line, thoughts whirling. Felix knew his father - and was that good or bad? Beckett was in danger. Was his father on the phone? Forget about his father - Vales had Beckett. Could he even trust this guy? Maybe he should shoot him and run.

Felix hung up the phone and Castle blurted the thought closest to his mouth. "Was that my father?"

The darker man looked at him in surprise. "No. It is, ah, his-" he flicked his wrist rapidly, searching for the word. "Ah-ah-helper."

Castle bounced his fist against his leg, his mind having dismissed the answer long before it came. He was confused, he was stressed, and he was angry. Angry that his father had left him in this situation, angry that he was free and Beckett was being sent to her death, and angry that he didn't even know if his father was really his father. His scattered thoughts began freeing themselves from his mind. "Who the hell is my father supposed be?" he shot off. "Are you a spy for his gang, or what? Give me the phone," Castle finished, extending a hand and not bothering to pause for answers.

Felix buried the phone in his jacket, offering one palm forward in defense. "No gang," he assured, seeming to draw back in hesitation. "You do not know who is you father?"

"Why is that so surprising to everyone?" Castle replied in exasperation.

"Ghost lies," Felix muttered to himself, his eyes regarding Castle's briefly. "Maybe it no is the truth."

"Who is he?" Castle demanded testily. This was going nowhere. He now knew less than before.

"You can trust - he is from you go'errnment." Felix said, his features closing down. "There no is time. You hide. I be back."

Felix turned and walked towards the driver's door, but Castle scrambled forward and caught his shoulder. "No - I'm going back for Beckett," he announced.

"For what?" Felix asked, puzzling.

Castle brushed by him and pulled open the door himself. "For Beckett. The woman. La señora - whatever." He was halfway into the cab before Felix yanked him backwards to the cracked pavement.

"Men are coming. For you, and the señora-"

"The good guys?" Castle interjected.

"_Sí_ - yes!" Felix answered earnestly. "Good!"

"Now?" Castle asked, still unsure of everything and rapidly losing patience with the vague answers - whether they were due to Felix's limited English or more conspiratorial reasons, he couldn't tell.

"One, two hours."

Castle swore and stepped closer to Felix and the van. "Too long. And where are you going?"

A strange, helpless expression flitted across Felix's face. "For to help the señora. If I can."

"Not alone, you're not," Castle said, walking around the front bumper and clambering into the passenger seat. Gallego's semi-automatic rifle was leaning up against the center of the bench, and Castle claimed it as his own.

"No, no - you stay. They say-"

"I don't care what they say." Castle turned the barrel of his new weapon on Felix. "And I don't care who said it. Drive."

Felix shook his head and reached for the gun. Castle jerked it away.

Sighing, Felix raised his hands slightly. "No can shoot." Reaching slowly for his own gun, he fingered a small mechanism and switched it into a new position. "Shoot," he explained, before flipping the mechanism back to its original position. "No shoot."

Castle checked his own gun and realized his safety was still on. He was good with handguns. Not semiautomatic rifles. But apparently he'd made his point, for Felix jumped out, dragged Gallego out of the back and into the grass, and turned the van back towards the cabin.

"Ok," Felix said. "You must be smart. No matter what."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm smart."

Felix shook his head again. "No, smart!" he made a pinching motion with his fingers near his eyes, indicating a focusing action. "Listen to me. She may be bad. You do not like. But you follow me. No matter what."

Castle felt the ice seeping back into his lungs, the fist twisting in his gut. He didn't want to ask. "What do you mean she may be bad?"

"Ghost and Vales - ah, want to know where da-da-chip is before Cavallo come take her. For more power for bargain."

Castle looked straight ahead, unconsciously working his teeth against themselves. They wanted bargaining power, power Beckett couldn't give them. Clenching his fists, he bent over and pressed them to his forehead in agitation. "So, what - drugs? Is that what they'll do to her?"

Felix waved his hand above the steering wheel in a negative. "Vales - very cheap. Drugs _muy caro_. Drugs last."

"Last?"

Glancing around, Felix stuttered for a word. He grabbed the cigarette lighter from its socket and held it up. "This cheap. Vales use this first."

"Shit, they're going to burn her?!" Castle shouted, losing his voice on the last word. His muscles were melting and a strong prickling radiated from his spine towards his limbs. Hot irons. Delicate skin, blistered onto metal, tearing as it clung to the infernal surface. The images were so strong he could almost smell the searing flesh.

"No, no, no," Felix interrupted his thoughts, replacing the lighter. "No fire. It's, ah-" his wrist was flicking again, his eyes darting about for a clue to the word. "There!" He pointed out the window. "The line - for phone - power!"

Of course. Cheap. Little cosmetic damage. Castle's stomach wrenched. Vales was going to electrocute her.

"Drive, dammit, drive!" Castle gritted from between his teeth. He was starting to shake, his heels drumming on the floor, his vision narrowing down to a single point on the horizon as he fought the new images crowding his mind - of her teeth slashing into her tongue, of her fingers and wrists, curled in agony, tendons jumping as her muscles wrenched against themselves -

Felix's backhanded slap across his cheek brought his surroundings back into focus, and he drew a sudden ragged breath.

"Be smart!" Felix shouted. "Or you out now."

"Ok, ok - I'm focused - I'm smart. I'm ok, alright; what else do I need to know?"

"Drugs after power, if it no work."

"And-" Castle blinked, looked out the window, looked back. "And what about - " he couldn't bring himself to say it, gesturing low with his hand instead.

Felix shrugged. "I do not know." He looked at the dashboard clock. "Maybe. After drugs."

Castle drew a hand down his face, felt his emotions shutting down, his blood pressure dropping in waves as his bones transformed from solid to jello to liquid before his heart caught up with his brain and surged against the numbness, surged so that his fingers gripped the metal barrel of his rifle with crushing force and he felt every fiber of his muscles swelling against the restraint of his will - and then it was over, and he was left with steel and resolve and hatred and nothing else. He was bringing her back, one way or another.

When Felix split off from the main road before they reached the gravel road leading to the cabin, Castle said nothing. If the man wasn't trustworthy by now, he was dead anyway. The small, overgrown dirt drive they had turned onto soon began to widen and show traces of worn gravel, winding between trees with a general downward angle. Quite suddenly it dumped them onto a very wide, well-kept gravel road that had been cut into the edge of the hill, flattening out for a stretch before dropping steeply down the mountain. Felix turned onto it briefly, driving along the far shoulder on the wrong side of the road as he searched the bank that crowded close to the driver's side. Out of reflex, Castle craned his neck to search as well, looking without knowing what to look for. Halfway through the flat stretch, Felix abruptly hit the brakes, parked the van, and killed the engine.

Castle looked questioningly towards him, but the stout Hispanic was already opening his door and clambering out. A moment later, he had pulled back an impressive amount of hanging vines dangling from the embankment above to uncover a metallic wall - a wall supporting a door and what looked like a giant garage door.

"Storage." Felix said. "We go here to cabin above."

Castle moved towards the door handle, clutching his gun closer, but Felix stopped him with a forearm across his chest.

"Wait. We plan first." He took a few quick steps back to the cab, coming back with a roadmap and a dirty pen. Flipping the map over, he drew a rough floor plan on the backside. "Bottom," he said, pointing at a series of connected boxes. "Room of questions. Office. Hallway. Bedroom."

Castle could see that the room of questions was the cement room where he had been taken from Beckett, and on the other side of the internal wall was a second room with a hallway that led back to a single bedroom.

Felix scrawled another plan separate from the first, and Castle recognized the rough boxes as the upstairs, with the large living area and the hallway leading to their makeshift prison. "Bathroom." Felix indicated, marking the small box with an X. "Maybe she is there...or here." He marked the cement room in the downstairs floor plan. Hesitating a moment, he marked the downstairs bedroom as well. "Maybe here. Three places," he said, holding up three fingers in Castle's face.

"Ok - so we check them all. What do we do after that? Shoot our way out?"

Felix took a deep breath and exhaled noisily. "No, no, no!" he corrected impatiently. "Very quiet. We hide, no make noise, or we dead. No shoot!" His eyes blazed into Castle's, as if attempting to brand him with the importance of his words. "Shoot, and die. Quiet, hide..." Felix turned back to the map. "...and maybe be alive." His eyes snapped back to Castle's. "I shoot - you shoot. I no shoot, you no shoot."

"Alright, ok," Castle said, holding his gun forward to show that his safety was on. "No shooting. I got it. Let's go."

Felix grabbed his arm and held him back once more. "After find her, we go back to truck," he said, jerking a thumb towards the van, "for to drive to river." He pointed in the direction where the gravel road dropped down the mountainside. "There is boats."

"Perfect," nodded Castle, impatient to move but grateful for the wisdom Felix showed in devising a plan, even if it was only vaguely explained. This was already enough of a suicide mission.

Felix drew the van keys from his pocket, and the burner phone, and set them on the driver's seat. "If one die, the other has keys, yes?"

Castle's mouth went a little dry, and he gave another curt nod. Suicide.

They passed through the doorway wordlessly, the day disappearing into unknown darkness.

* * *

A/N: I'm sorry this is short, and probably rather unsatisfying. But I wanted to post something for you all. The rest will be coming soon...before the end of next week for sure! What does Castle find and is Felix really trustworthy? Don't worry - this is part 1 of 2!


	8. Chapter 8

XXX WARNING: This chapter is rated "M", because it details some intense scenes related to very mature themes. Be advised! XXX

* * *

Carson didn't bother with a polite rap on the Director's door. His boss had returned early this morning, and any intrusion of privacy would be forgiven as soon as Carson relayed his news.

"Sir - we heard from our man on the ground in our hostage situation," he announced.

The Director was standing behind his desk, still wearing yesterday's suit and looking older and more tired than Carson had seen him all year. There was at least a foot of additional paperwork stacked above the normal level on the desk, and one glance at the dual-monitor showed browser after browser layered across the screens.

"And?" the Director led, tomahawking his ever-present pen across the room at his assistant.

Carson snapped up a hand but failed to catch it. "We have the coordinates - deep upstate New York. I've already got a team on their way. He sprung one hostage - Richard Castle - and said he was going back for the other."

The Director sharpened his gaze. "Castle's out? And you didn't tell him to stay with him?"

"I suggested it, but Felix argued pretty strongly-"

"I'll bet he did."

"-that the woman was in imminent danger and couldn't wait for the extraction squad. He said to tell you Cavallo is on the way, but Castle is safe."

The Director dropped his head and pinched the skin between his eyebrows, squeezing his eyes shut. "Cavallo is the same as The Organization. How long until the extraction squad gets there?"

"Due to the terrain, about an hour and half by chopper."

"And Cavallo?"

Carson pressed his lips together briefly. "We browsed the satellite feed near the given coordinates and found an unidentified chopper heading that direction. If it sticks to its current heading and speed, I'd say thirty to forty minutes before we do."

"Oh, she's gone," the Director said flatly.

"Sir?"

"How many choppers do you have going in?"

"Two."

"Get two more choppers in the air. Now." The Director ordered.

"Yessir."

"Tell your lead chopper to locate and return with Castle - without continuing on to wherever the girl is being held. The second chopper is to hang back for a rendezvous with the two additional choppers and move in as a group."

"You don't think Felix can spring the woman, too?"

"Not if Cavallo is that close." The Director shook his head. "He's walking to his death."

Carson sucked in a small breath of air. "I like him," he said softly.

The Director looked at him sardonically from beneath low brows. "Yeah, 'cause you're both religious."

"He's a good man," Carson asserted. He didn't take offense at the intentional barb - the Director always resorted to sarcasm when he was experiencing strong emotion. "I'll keep you posted," he said, reaching behind him for the door handle.

"Oh, and Carson?" The Director said, pointing to his pen lying on the floor near the door. "You're losing your edge."

Carson snorted. "And you're going senile. I'm convinced you've reduced yourself to printing massive piles of papers just to be sure we meet our office budget each year," he retorted, sweeping an arm towards the laden desk. "It's amazing they still keep you on."

The Director waved a hand, and Carson shut the door.

* * *

A small but determined beam of light split the darkness, and Castle traced its origin to a mini flashlight in Felix's hand. They began to venture forward, Felix speaking in a low voice as he explained their location. He'd placed them much closer to the cabin than Castle had previously realized - the storage room would bring them right up to their destination, albeit several dozen feet below. A low ceiling hovered only a hand's length above Castle's head, but the room was long and wide, and in the sweeping beam he could see large crates and rectangular containers stacked in various locations along their path. He could only guess at their contents - guns, maybe; or drugs. Probably both.

Reaching the other side of the damp room, his guide opened another door and led the way into to an awkwardly narrow stairwell with hollow, slick aluminum steps. Several short flights later, Castle stood behind Felix on the top landing, watching him press an ear to the exterior door of the cabin's basement. Clearly, the stairwell and storage room had been added on to the cabin long after its original construction; the stair landing was nearly a foot below the lip of the threshold. They were entering on the backside of the cabin, opposite the parking lot. Passing through this door would put them at the end of the basement hallway, with a bedroom immediately to their left and the office at the far end of the hall. And on the opposite side of the office was the concrete room.

It had been nearly an hour since they'd left the cabin with Gallego, and of the three places Beckett could be, Castle didn't know which to hope for. The upstairs bathroom-prison meant they'd probably zapped her and possibly drugged her before deciding she had nothing to offer, but it was the farthest and most difficult extraction. Finding her in the concrete room meant the interrogation was still underway, and perhaps they could intervene before the drugs...but Castle knew they'd be outgunned ten to one with chances of survival next to none. The downstairs bedroom, only a wall away, was their best shot at getting out alive due to its proximity and accessibility - but it meant that Beckett had most likely been subjected to electrocution, drugs, and Vales' animal acts of dominance.

Castle blinked as his vision hazed slightly. The inadequate amount food he'd been given over the past several days was beginning to take its toll. His eyes were straining in the dim light, and the climb up the stairs had taken more out of him than it should have. Felix was turning the handle now, edging cautiously forward until his eye could peer through the cracked door, until he could be sure there were no guns patrolling the hall. His movements were fluid and silent as he slipped into the cabin, hugging the wall for obscurity. Castle followed, grimacing at the way his jeans swished when he passed through the door. Felix cast him a disapproving glance; he was going to have to do better than that.

Felix was making gestures at him; signs instructing him on what to do. After a moment Castle understood he was to look down the hall, to watch the door that linked the office to the concrete room. If there was any movement, he was to warn Felix immediately. The Hispanic man turned and cautiously tested the handle to the bedroom on his left. Intent on his watch, Castle glimpsed Felix push the door open an inch in his peripheral vision, pausing to listen for movement. He glanced back at Castle, glanced at the far office door, and pushed the door open far enough to poke his head in.

Castle felt his guts twist in anticipation, barely managing to keep his eyes on the office door. When Felix didn't immediately pull his head back into the hall, but instead took a step inward, Castle's need to know overwhelmed him and he glanced through the narrow doorway in search of his muse. He could see a bathroom, one bedpost, and the corner of a bedspread. The rest was obscured by the still mostly-closed door. The bathroom light was on - it was this fact that seemed to be holding Felix's interest. Perhaps Beckett wasn't as incapacitated as they had thought: perhaps she was up, searching for a way to release her cuffs.

A small noise at the end of the hall snapped his attention back to his post, and already he could see he was too late. The office door was beginning to swing inward - Castle squeaked at Felix even as he jumped across the hall and flattened himself against the wall so the hallway's far corner hid him from the immediate line of sight. Felix caught the look in his eye and seemed to deduce there was no time to retreat back to the stairwell, and with an inaudible swear he grabbed Castle's cuff and pulled him into the bedroom, gingerly shutting the door behind them.

Beckett wasn't there. Castle froze in the middle of the room, his heart racing as a mouse caught in a trap. He looked to Felix for guidance; saw the man's black eyes dash from the bathroom to the closet to the bed. In the next moment Felix had his arm again and was dragging him to the bedside, pushing him down to his knees before disappearing beneath the bed. Castle followed him immediately, rolling under the frame so quickly he bumped his chin against Felix's shoulder. It was a king-sized bed with plenty of clearance, but there were no bed skirts to hide their feet from view, forcing them both to cram as close to the head as possible with knees bent to ensure no one entering the room would catch sight of a stray toe. Dust swirled into their lungs and cobwebs matted their hair as their rifles jostled awkwardly for placement amongst ribs and hips and elbows. Felix was trying to whisper something to him at the last minute, something about waiting until they were gone - no matter what. No shoot. No action. Be smart.

Castle heard muffled voices, and then the sound of the door opening, followed by the footsteps of at least three sets of boots hammering against the wood floor; he could feel the vibrations of each footfall. More Spanish, some dark laughter, and the mattress creaked above him as a weight was laid upon it. He strained his hearing, but if there were any moans or cries he couldn't hear them over the husk of the mens' voices. The boots surrounded the bed, scuffed about and then dispersed, exiting upon the command of a familiar voice.

There was a period of silence, and Castle cast his gaze around the half of the room he could see. It was empty. They had gone. Relaxing muscles he didn't realize he had coiled, he started to shift his weight towards the edge of the bed - and stopped as a footfall vibrated the boards beneath him. He threw a quick glance towards the foot of the bed, where a single pair of shoes paced slowly along the edge. A soft, lewd stream of foreign words thrust themselves through the mattress, the tone pregnant with perversion. It was clear from the man's gait that he was leaning over the spread, his hands occupied. The polished toes stopped at the head of the bed, so close to Castle that he could see the meticulous threading lashing the tanned leather to the sole - in and out, in and out. He held his breath and tried not to be sick as the shoes lifted upwards onto the bed.

Vales.

The frame trembled as the crime lord moved across the mattress, then shook with a sudden increase of activity - perhaps a struggle, he couldn't be sure. He could hear her now; hear her labored breathing and small, frustrated whimpers. Castle rolled his eyes frantically to Felix but the guard bared his teeth and shook his head vehemently. Better damaged than dead. There was a spitting sound followed by a slap and a low, panting laugh, and Castle ground his teeth against his tongue in an attempt to control his voice. He would not cry out.

The struggle subsided into silence, and the bed was still. Castle's imagination projected images faster than he could dismiss them, and a hurricane rose in his ears, surf pounding behind his eye sockets. Somehow, through the fog, he heard a tiny, metallic sound.

The sound of a belt buckle falling against the brass button of a pair of jeans.

He wasn't sure if he actually heard the sound, or if he imagined it, but either way, it woke a primal instinct deep within his psyche. He was rolling away from Felix before the smaller man could get a hand on him, dragging his rifle behind him. Beckett's voice echoed in his head, from days ago, ordering him not to intervene, '_no matter what'_ - Felix's accent blended into her words, insisting he '_be smart!'_

He didn't give a damn. She was his woman. And he was going to be a man about it.

Rolling out and rising to his feet, he took in the scene at a glance. Beckett, flat on her back with her blouse unbuttoned - still caked in his own blood from their first day of captivity - and Vales, kneeling over her, his knees pressing deep into the mattress on either side of her thighs with one hand on the zipper of her jeans and the other pinning her cuffed wrists above her head into the tangled nest of her hair.

It was fortunate Vales still had his pants on: Castle grabbed a fistful of waistband with his right hand and Vales' shirt collar with his left. His rifle clattered to the floor as he crouched and flexed, heaving Vales bodily towards himself and rotating to throw him a surprising distance towards the far wall. There was an empty suitcase rack where Vales landed: it splintered and collapsed under his sudden weight. Castle was on him before the crackling sound died out, all fists and fury across the face of his antagonist.

Vales was good; he managed to get his hands up, managed to block a few blows and buck Castle off-center enough to twist out from beneath him and press the butt of his palm into Castle's nose. In his frenzied state, Castle felt no pain; but his vision spotted and blurred as unwanted tears scalded his eyes. He rocked backwards to buy himself some time - saw Vales gather himself and open his mouth to yell -

and the butt of Felix's rifle came down hard on the back of his boss's skull, cracking sharply in the sparse room.

Castle saw Vales' eyes roll back in unconsciousness as he crumpled towards his feet, but he was already moving across the room, reaching for his own rifle and bringing it around with his thumb flicking at the safety. The image of Vales crouching over Beckett raged through his mind, creating a vacuum devoid of reason and filled with anger and hate and murderous instinct. He drew the gun to his shoulder, found the crumpled pile of clothes that was Vales, and squeezed down his trigger finger. There was no kick; no satisfactory lurch from the slumped bulk - and Castle realized he was squeezing the trigger guard, not the actual firing mechanism. And in the heartbeat it took for him to adjust his grip, Felix had wrapped one large hand around the barrel, redirecting the gun towards the floor with his other hand fisting into the front of Castle's shirt.

"No shoot!" He rasped in desperation. "_¡Estupido! _He no is danger!"

Castle struggled to free his rifle, his eyes fixated on Vales, but Felix kept a firm grip and used the struggle to turn him back towards the bed - back to Beckett, still flat on her back, her loosely curled fists still resting above her head. Her vulnerability was so stark against the large bed that his plans for Vales quickly faded beneath the panic induced by her lethargic state. He relinquished control of his rifle immediately.

"Beckett?" he whispered brokenly, putting one knee on the bed to better reach her. "Kate?"

Small, sweaty curls clung at the edges of her temples, her breathing too rapid and labored, her eyes too slow to respond. She tried to lower her hands, but the chain of her cuffs bumped against the top of her head and she immediately gave up, not having the energy to lift them off the bed's surface.

"Kate, love, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry -" Castle reached up and gently folded her chafed, raw wrists into his hands, using his own strength to draw them down onto her stomach. Fumbling into the back pocket of his jeans, he drew out the handcuff key and tried three times before the key slipped into the lock. His hands shook with adrenaline. "I've got you now, okay? I've got you."

He freed her other hand from the cuff and her lids flickered wide, giving him a glimpse at her eyes. Cloudy, and dilated to such an extent they were merely black windows rimmed with a thin layer of dark, stormy gray. Her gaze drifted lazily towards him, and suddenly her breathing hitched and her hands began to fumble, pushing faintly against his hovering chest as she fought the heaviness of her lids, her eyes drifting and snapping back to him in staccato movements.

She was scaring him. Really scaring him.

He coddled one of her flailing wrists, kissed the delicate skin below the raw wound left from the cuffs. "Kate, shh - it's me, it's just me - it's Castle; I'm kinda famous, remember?" Fighting the tears in his eyes, he slipped an arm around her shoulders, finding them to be comfortingly firm against his grip. Her head lolled away, but he pressed her curled fingers against his cheek, kissing the base of her palm. "Beckett - Kate - always, always - I will always find you. Always - remember? You said it too. Come on, say it back. Always."

Her head rolled back towards him, eyelids still at half-mast, so that her nose bumped into the shoulder of his shirt. She drew a ragged breath, and it shook out of her in tatters, convulsing in her chest. But her fingers opened against his cheek, pressing flat as her nails skirted his unshaven face.

Castle felt a hand on his shoulder; it was Felix, his face softened but still carrying a purposeful intensity. "I help you. Safety is very far."

"No - I've got her." Castle replied. "You get the doors." Letting her hand fall from his cheek, he gathered up her knees and slid her to the side of the bed before carefully hoisting her into his arms. She was limp against him, her muscles too flaccid over her bones. He could tell it was taking all her strength just to keep her head resting on his collarbone instead of lolling backwards and hanging from her shoulders. "You hear that, beautiful? We're gonna be safe. We're gonna make it. Just hang in there with me."

He glanced to where Vales had fallen - but his body was gone. He looked to Felix in alarm, and Felix redirected his gaze with a finger towards the bathroom. Glancing over Beckett's head, he saw that the wily guard had dragged Vales into the bathroom and cuffed him with his arms embracing the base of the toilet.

"In case maybe he feel sick when he wake up." Felix smirked.

Castle twitched a smile. He liked this guy.

There was no one in the hall or office. This wing of the cabin was Vales' personal quarters, and apparently he'd ordered his guards to clear out. There was no reason for him to suspect attack. Maneuvering Beckett through the door leading to the stairs, Castle carefully navigated the sudden drop from the stoop to the top of the landing. Already his arms were tiring from her dead weight, already his legs were losing their solidarity in the face of his ordeal. Perhaps he would take Felix up on his offer to help out. But not yet. Right now, he just wanted to feel her ribs expanding against his chest, to feel her fingers weakly twine into the hem of his shirt. He wanted to feel the jut of her shoulder blade, the point of her hip, the friction of her body against his. Her head dropped away halfway down the stairs; he hefted her shoulders a little higher and angled her until she found her place again, mouth at his collar and hot air washing down his neck. Her teeth scraped his skin - in pain or reassurance he didn't know - but it meant she was still with him, she was still fighting.

They both were.

* * *

A/N: Aaaaaaah! I've been wanting to get to this point since, oh - since I started! I'm excited. How'd it make you feel? What was the most intense moment for you? Let me know because I am trying to learn how to write good suspense!

They're not in the clear yet - The Initiative is bearing down rapidly. More action and more hurt/comfort in the next chapter!


	9. Chapter 9

There was a strange, rhythmic percussion beginning to build in the air within the storage room as Castle reached the door leading to the van. Beckett was behind him, flopped over Felix's right shoulder in a fireman carry. Felix needed his hands free; there were no guarantees the van hadn't been discovered and a welcome party thrown in their honor. Neither the small door nor the large door offered any windows to the situation outside and Castle resorted to pressing his ear against the cold surface in hopes of hearing nothing.

The heavy thrumming increased, coalesced - and Castle twisted his head back towards Felix so quickly his chin grazed the butt of his rifle clutched at his side.

"Chopper!" he exclaimed.

But Felix was shaking his head, smacking his thigh in frustration with an open palm. "No is our guys. Too quick."

"So what do we do?" Castle shouted, barely able to hear himself. The chopper must have been nearly on top of them now; he could feel every stroke of its rotors through the door. "Hide?"

Felix started to turn, Beckett's inertia slowing his movements, but stopped and turned back, listening.

Castle started to panic. They had to do _something _if a chopper full of Cavallo's men were about to invade-

Felix saw it on his face and put up a hand to steady him. "They passing over."

Castle froze, listening, and realized he was right. The deafening sound was beginning to fade - but not as much as he would like. The cabin was only a hundred yards up hill, and judging by the sound of the chopper, it wasn't much farther.

"Go, go!" Felix urged him, indicating the doorknob.

Castle flipped off his rifle's safety, and they both fell away behind opposite doorjambs as he flung open the door. No shots rang out; no bullets ricocheted through the room. There was only the green waterfall of leafy vines, shaken and tangled from the chopper's wind.

He was in the passenger's seat in a moment, lifting Beckett from Felix's shoulders and sitting her sideways onto his lap with her legs towards the middle and her forehead pressing into the side of his neck. He'd thought after spending the length of the storage room over Felix's shoulder she'd be unconscious, but besides a very red face from the blood pooling in her head, she seemed still with it. He used his right arm to wrap around her shoulders and hug her tightly against himself while snaking his left low around her thighs until he could snag a finger into the back loop of her jeans, pinning her into his hips. She was a damn tough woman.

"Get us out of here, Felix," Castle strained, fear and panic climbing one rung at a time. If Cavallo was already here, Vales would soon be discovered on his bathroom floor, if he hadn't been already. And then it would be only moments before the chopper figured out the white van on the road and its likely occupants.

Felix needed no urging, cranking the van to life and into gear in one motion. The engine roared and the van lurched forward with surprising quickness, slowing for a moment as a front tire spun gravel beneath the chassis before it caught and they jumped again as the van clawed deep into the gravel for speed.

Beckett murmured into his collarbone, and Castle turned his attention on her, keeping his feet braced forward into the foot well against the motion of the van. Letting her fall back slightly so her head rested more at the point of his shoulder, he searched her face. A little dirty and too white for his liking; but beautiful, marked only by a faint redness left from Vales' hand. She murmured again, but her eyes were drifting and he realized she may not really be saying anything at all.

He wanted to reach up and smooth the sweaty locks from her damp forehead, but his hands were barely managing to hold her steady as the van twisted with the road. He could feel her heart racing, feel the heat of her body searing, too hot, into his skin. He dropped his cheek around hers so he could soothe sounds into her ear, and he felt her lashes flutter at his cheeks - damply. Her lashes were damp; more than damp. He drew back to investigate, saw a small tear hover in the corner of her eye against the cove of her nose, and then it fell, coursing the length of her nose to the tip, where it clung, trembling tenaciously.

"Kate," he murmured. "Katie, don't cry." Another tear was gathering at the corner, welling, falling, and he leaned in to graze the line of her nose with his lips, catching it. Salty and sweet and liquid pain in his heart. He could bear seeing a lot of things, but her tears were not one of them.

He twisted his head away, blinking it all back, and growled at Felix. "How far?"

"Five minute." Felix risked a darting glance at Beckett. "She no is in pain."

"The hell she isn't in pain!" Castle yelled. "She's been fucking electrocuted and drugged out of her mind!"

His yelling disturbed Beckett; she rolled her head on his shoulder and mumbled again. He turned back, saw that his shirt was wet under her cheek, saw that she was intentionally bumping her nose against him.

"Shh, I know, it's rough; we'll be there soon, okay? You're doing great. You're doing really great," he said, heart in his throat. Her eyes fluttered and her throat worked and then she looked up at him, held his stare for a moment, lost focus, regained it, and lost it again. She looked...frustrated.

"Too much drug, so pain is small." Felix cranked around a bend and the rear skipped sideways a few feet before coming with them.

Of course they gave her too much. She was half the size of a grown man. Castle gripped her tighter. "What'd they use?"

Felix shrugged. "A mix, of Vales' cousin. But it short."

"Short?" Castle squinted, confused.

"It will go away with short time. She will be okay."

The van crested a small rise where the trees thinned momentarily, and Felix shouted in surprise. Castle screamed. Leaves were everywhere; small twigs pelted their windshield as the black belly of a chopper hovered before them, its skids nearly touching the trees.

Felix slammed the brakes and spun the wheel to the right as the stutter of gunfire joined the hammer of the blades, and Castle heard bullets pinging through the cargo area. He shoved Beckett down into his lap as far as he could and still keep a grip on her, bracing a hand against the dash as Felix took them down the mountain. Castle couldn't speak, scream, or breathe through his clenched teeth as the van slipped, dodged, and bucked its way through so many near hits both side mirrors were slapped flat by the passing trunks of unforgiving trees. Felix was managing their speed, keeping it slow enough to maintain some semblance of control but fast enough to still give them a chance.

The trees grew too thick; Felix had to make a hard correction to avoid eating bark head-on but the rear couldn't track with the front and glanced off the same tree, twisting them sideways to the slope. For a moment Castle thought they might roll - but another tree planted itself with a deafening crunch into his side of the van, bringing Felix sliding across the bench into him as Castle himself slammed into the passenger door, feeling it give beneath their combined weights and open wide to the forest floor.

They weren't exactly thrown from the van - they hadn't been moving fast enough for that - but were dumped heavily onto a carpet of pine needles. Castle lost all the air in his lungs as Beckett and Felix landed mostly on top of him; he thought he might pass out but Felix was yelling, screaming at him to get up and get his gun. He was on his knees before the white spots fully left his vision; he was stumbling down the mountain before he even realized his balance worked, that his feet still obeyed his brain. He could see Beckett, slung across Felix's shoulders like an injured lamb, and his strides lengthened, his lungs regaining their rhythm.

Their flight ended at a tiny stream, where Felix paused, searching. Castle slipped the last few steps into the shallow water beside Felix and his burden, gasping in tiny breaths with a hand to the stitch in his side as he took in their surroundings. Steep banks, trees, and dead leaves covering everything with rock ledges jutting from the surface of the mountain like horny plates. Woods everywhere and nowhere to go. There were shouts coming from the mountainside above them: their pursuers were on foot, they'd already found the van. Castle felt his strength leave him and his guts turn to stone. There would be no outrunning them now.

But Felix waded across the stream and set an unconscious Beckett down beneath a pair of car-sized rocks that seemed to have fallen against each other and been buried by the mountain. At the base of the two rocks, almost at eye-level, there was a black gap wide enough for two people to sit side-by-side with their heads just hitting at the junction of the rocks.

"A cave?" Castle wheezed. "We'll be trapped!"

"We trapped now!" Felix said, beckoning for Castle to hurry and crawl inside. "Maybe we get more time."

With some difficulty, they maneuvered Beckett through the opening and felt for the back of the cave. It was more a small hollow in the mountain than a cave; the ceiling was barely four feet high and sloped steeply to the floor only thirty feet back. But it narrowed their point of defense to one spot: the entrance, and as long as their enemies didn't pack in any grenades they had at least a fighting chance for as long as their ammo held out. A few medium-sized rocks laid about; with some rearranging they had two tiny walls built on either side of the cave, barely big enough to curl behind.

They laid Beckett in the back corner, and Castle set himself up behind the lump of stones on her side of the cave with Felix crouching behind the opposite pile. Both men held their rifles ready between their knees, eyes trained on the entrance as the minutes ticked by.

"Castle?" Her voice cut the silence; uncertain, fearful.

Castle scooted to her side, rifle still held at ready. "Hey, tough stuff, I'm right here - you're okay," he assured, reaching a hand forward and cupping her cheek. The cave entrance let in enough light to give the room a low gloom, but didn't reveal much detail.

Her fingers reached up and wrapped around his wrist, her other hand traveling up his arm. "Castle," she said again, sounding relieved. "We have to get out of here."

"I know. We're waiting until dark."

She pulled on his arm and rolled over onto her side. "Castle - who is that guy?" she stage-whispered, clutching at his sleeve.

He looked down at her, saw her searching around her waist. "That's Felix. He's the guy who got you out."

"No-" she whispered, urgent. "No- he's not good, Castle. I saw him take you - he walked out and took you - Castle!" She grunted in protest as he laid a hand over her mouth.

"Shh! Kate, keep your voice down."

She pried at his hand and he let her go. Her hands weakly framed his face, turning his gaze fully on her. "You don't understand, Castle. Trust me - he's not good. For once do what I tell you - "

Felix hissed at them from across the room and Castle put his hand back over Beckett's mouth. She grumbled under his hand, pulling at his wrist, but he leaned down and spoke into her ear. "Kate, we can trust him. Be quieter and I'll take my hand away." But her words echoed in his head - did she know something he didn't?

Beckett stilled, and once again he removed his hand. She started whispering again. "Castle, give me my gun."

"You don't have one," he whispered back, confused. She was searching around her waist again.

"Yes I do. I always carry it right here. We have to get out of here."

"Kate, I know. We have to wait until dark." He responded, a heavy feeling growing in his stomach.

Beckett shifted, pushing against her arms. "C'mon, get off me," she said.

"As much as I wish, I am not on you right now, Kate," he replied, laying a hand on her waist. "I think you should stay lying down."

"No-I want to-" she grunted and gave up, putting a hand over her eyes. "Castle?" Her voice sounded a little panicky. "Why are my legs heavy? And my arms aren't working. Wha-"

"Shh, Kate-" he leaned forward and pressed her wandering hands against her chest, put his face close to hers. "You were drugged. They're probably wearing off now. Just see if you can stay quiet, okay? We need to be quiet."

He saw her brows pull together in confusion, and she huffed a few rapid breaths. "Castle," she whispered, nearly a moan. "I feel weird."

Even in the gloom, he could feel the fear and confusion in her eyes. "I know," he replied. "But you're gonna be okay, alright? Just hold my hand."

She started to whimper, and he dipped and caught her lips, drowning the heartbreaking sound with his tongue against her teeth. He kept his lips against hers until her fogged brain realized he was there and she relaxed against him, softening her mouth and closing her eyes.

A moment later her breathing steadied as she slipped back under, and he returned his full attention to the cave entrance, more resolved than ever to get her out alive.

* * *

The first man that found them went down without a sound, Felix's bullet in his face. Castle fired too, but the angle was wrong and it zinged off an edge of the rock. Felix signaled to him and he understood they should take sides; one cover left, one cover right. Conserve ammo. Castle struggled to relax, to get a grip on the adrenaline racking his body, and was partially successful by telling himself it was the same as a first-person shooter game: shoot whatever moves across your screen.

Beckett had roused a few more times before they'd been discovered, and Castle ran through the same routine each time. We have to wait till dark. Felix is good. You were drugged. Hold my hand. Each time left him more raw than the last, and he was glad she was back out when the shooting began.

A short time after Felix dropped the first man, shouts signified the body had been discovered in the stream below. More voices joined the first and suddenly, another set of shoulders blocked the light. This time, Castle didn't miss.

And then all hell broke loose.

Castle and Felix pressed themselves into the corners of the floor as bullets machined through the entrance. Castle waited for the tearing of his flesh, but the angle of attack was wrong and most of the bullets ricocheted off the ceiling to bury themselves in the soft dirt near the center of the cave. This was a bad idea. They were going to die.

After the first salvo neither Castle nor Felix twitched a muscle, and the echoes faded into an extended silence. Voices argued, and suddenly the bullets sprayed again, but this time they were at a changing angle - one ricocheted so close it kicked dirt into Castle's eye. And then he saw why; two thugs lunged into view, laying their own cover fire. Pressed to the dirt as they were, huddled behind their tiny barricades, neither he nor Felix had the luxury of aiming. Both of them blindly sprayed the entrance, silencing both gunman but spending far too many bullets.

In the resulting silence, Castle realized his shoulder felt clamped between two hot irons, crushed in their heat. He gritted his teeth, glanced down and saw nothing, glanced up and heard a sound that battered at his already splintering hopes: the heavy chop-chop of rotors arriving on the scene.

Felix was shouting, pointing - smiling? He was up on one knee, pumping his fist. Castle puzzled, confused, before hearing it himself. There was more than one chopper; he could hear their overlapping beats, their sound deeper and more thunderous than before. The good guys. He couldn't tell how far away they were - it didn't seem that they were on top of them, not yet, but the men in the stream were shouting, scrambling, ceasing their attack on the cave. Castle lifted his head, feeling real hope -

And a grenade soared through the entrance.

Felix was diving forward before it hit the ground, scooping and throwing in one action. The grenade spun away to explode harmlessly into the forest, but his body was left exposed, silhouetted against the light of the entrance.

Castle heard his own scream as the staccato of gunfire raked across the cave one last time.

* * *

Beckett woke on her back, staring into darkness. She was thirsty. Really thirsty. Her tongue felt too big for her mouth and she worked her jaw, trying to get some moisture back to dissolve the metallic taste in her mouth. Her body took stock in waves: first her head hurt, it was pounding - and then her abdominals lit up in fire as she tried to rise. Her legs were tingly, her arms too heavy, and her vision blurry. She blinked, and realized her eyes weren't actually blurry, but the light was low. She was on the ground, she was cold, and there was a rock wall to her left. And above her.

Carefully rolling over, she looked up and saw a rough triangle of light not thirty feet away. Darting her eyes around the room, she felt gravelly dirt beneath her hands and realized she wasn't in a room at all, but in more of an earthy tomb.

Where the hell was she?

Everything on her hurt: her abs, her arms, her legs - she felt like she'd run a marathon and then turned around and did it again. Closing her eyes, she pressed a hand to her temple and struggled to remember, struggled to conjure up any reason she would be in this place, feeling this way. Nothing. No, wait - there was a rod - and men, and the rod was why everything _hurt _- and -

Castle.

Her eyes flew open and she forced her arms to support her weight, forced herself to push up off the cave floor. Two bodies: one slumped near the entrance, the second stretched between her and the other. Both on their backs, both motionless. Beckett felt her throat closing in; she recognized the swell of that chest, the length of that leg. Castle.

"No, no no no!" she cried, managing to get up onto her hands and knees on the second attempt and crawl to his side. "Castle?! Rick, come on, talk to me," she begged, finding his pulse and swallowing in relief. "You have to tell me what's going on - tell me the story, come on Rick..." She was running her hands all over his chest, searching for his injury. With her stomach clenching into her spine she carefully ran her nails across his scalp, afraid of what she might find.

He roused under her fingers, turning his head and muttering a moan.

"Castle?" she whispered, bending low. "Come on, say it again."

Castle opened his eyes, winced on a breath. "Felix..." he exhaled softly.

"Is that the dead guy over there?" Beckett asked. The other body was closer to the light, and Beckett didn't need an ME to tell her the guy was gone.

"Is he? Felix is good, Kate. He was good."

She was confused by his tone; gentle and placating. "I'm sorry to hear that," she murmured, leaning over him. "Where are you hurt?"

Castle grimaced, finally locking his eyes on her. "Shoulder, I think. But you should lie down. The good guys are coming, alright? Just take it easy."

"Castle," she said, running her fingers under the lapels of his shirt. "Stop talking to me like I'm five. I can't find where you're hurt. Did you break something? Are you bleeding?" Rolling her hand under his armpit, she felt the backs of her fingers dip into something warm and sticky. "Shit." she whispered. "You're bleeding."

"Are we safe?" Castle murmured, his good arm twitching for his rifle.

"I don't know - are we?" Beckett asked as she looked up at the entrance with renewed alertness. All she saw were trees. "Last I knew I was in the cabin with Ghost and you were leaving - here, let me take that. Fill me in."

"No, no-" Castle grunted, holding on to the rifle. "I don't know if I trust you with a gun."

"What?!" she huffed, letting him keep the weapon as she reached farther under his shoulder. "Castle, there's a lot of blood. I need you to roll over."

He gave a half-hearted attempt to roll, but winced and gave up. "I don't want to."

Beckett dug both her hands under his injured side and pushed. "Castle. Roll. I can't do it myself."

With a groan he struggled onto his side enough for her to inspect him. She found the hole in his shirt, felt the seepage effusing from his wound. "Oh, Rick," she murmured. "You've been hit. I've got to stop this bleeding."

"No - just leave it, Kate!" he hissed as she pressed her fingers against him. "I don't think it's that bad - they'll be here soon."

"Who?" Beckett asked, wincing as he rolled back over, pinning her hand beneath his shoulder blade. So much for targeted pressure.

"The government, or something. I don't know; maybe my dad. Felix knew him."

"Alright - clearly, I'm way behind. But right now, you need to roll over and let me stop this bleeding."

"Beckett - it hurts!"

"I know it hurts, Rick! But I'm not going to let you bleed out in here!"

Castle rolled onto his stomach with a lurch, pushing the rifle out from beneath him. Beckett laced one hand over the other and braced her arms, pressing the heel of her palm into the bleeding wound. Castle exhaled a loud curse, pounding a toe against the dirt as he ground his forehead into his outstretched arm.

Her arms tired in less than a minute, but she could tell the bleeding hadn't stopped. Castle mumbled the entire time, talking to her about the defected guard to keep his mind off the pain.

"He saved us both, Kate. He took bullets for that grenade."

Her arms couldn't hold her anymore; she leaned forward and let her chest press down against her joined hands.

"Kate? You okay up there?"

"Yes," she answered. "Just...really weak."

"'Cause they electrocuted you."

"Yeah, that."

"And drugged you."

Oh. "That explains a lot," she muttered, head aching. Like her memory blanks. And her torturous thirst. Laying her forehead onto the tendon of his neck, she breathed in his scent, suddenly overwhelmed by emotion. "Thank you for coming back, Rick. For saving me."

Castle didn't miss a beat. "Always," he said. "Always."

* * *

A/N: Alright! Rescued at last. I felt a little sad about Felix…but I'm not sure I fleshed out his character enough before he died. *Note to self: learn how to write stronger characters* He was a deeper character in my mind, lol.

So on to the next chapter…does Castle finally meet his dad? And how does the Director ensure the future safety of Castle and Beckett? Who is dealing with the most trauma – Castle or Beckett?


	10. Chapter 10

The Director strode down a long corridor in a secure hospital outside New York City, stopping at an open recovery room with a white-collar security guard standing nearby. Less than two hours before, he had been pacing the situation room back at Langley, white-knuckled and terse as the extraction team detected an explosion and honed their search for Felix and the two hostages. Hardly had the words _cave_, _bodies_, and _alive_ crossed the air before he ordered them to the nearest security-cleared medical facility and charted his own chopper for the same. His career, identity, and personal future teetered upon one pivotal question: _exactly how much did the writer know?  
_  
He rapped his knuckles on the door frame and passed into the room, focusing on the single gurney in a corner across the open floor. The room was more of a transient holding area for low-priority patients than any sort of equipped hospital room; it was windowless, bare-walled, and washed out by fluorescent panel lights. The woman lying on the gurney had her back to his entrance and he hesitated, wondering if he should leave her resting for a while longer - but she was already shifting to face him, one slow movement at a time, and he wanted to talk to her before the writer came out of surgery.

"Detective Beckett," he said gently, "It's good to see you safe."

She gave him a tired stretch of a smile that sharpened her cheekbones beneath her dark lashes. "You don't look like a doctor," she said. "And it's just Kate Beckett now. I resigned."

He stepped closer, and her shoes sunk into the mattress as she struggled to push herself upwards.

"Please - don't exert yourself; I won't be here long," the Director assured, finding a tiny stool and dragging it a comfortable distance from her bedside.

She ignored him and inched herself backwards until the wall supported her spine braced her into a decent sitting position. She wore a boxy blue scrub top, but her jeans and shoes were part of her original outfit and left dry flakes of blood and grit on the starched sheet beneath her. Except for an IV line running into a needle in her left arm, no medical accessories suggested serious injury.

"Were you the one who got us out?" she asked, grabbing the fabric of her jeans and drawing a knee to her chest.

"Yes," he lied; he'd negotiated for Castle and left her to the wolves. "I oversaw the operation."

"Thank you," she said, eyes unwavering and serious.

He nodded. "I just have a few questions, if you're up for it."

"So do I," she replied, and he was suddenly struck by her body language - the raised knee between them, her hands hidden behind her thigh - all signs of distrust.

Did she know?

"I'm sorry," he offered. "I didn't introduce myself. I'm a Director at the CIA-" he flashed the credentials hanging from the inside of his jacket, "-and I aim to have you home by five."

"Director...?" she trailed, fishing for a name.

He smiled. "Just Director."

"I see," she nodded, but the questions swirled behind her eyes.

Leaning forward in sincerity, he held her gaze. "You're safe now. I'm not with them."

"Them?" Her eyes shot to his.

"They've haunted you for a long time; I know. Your mother, your captain; bodies are everywhere around you. But not you."

She opened her mouth and took a breath, frowned heavily and lifted an uncertain hand to her temple. "I don't understand, I'm sorry - my brain is..." she squeezed her eyes and exhaled slowly. "I assumed...you were here for other reasons." Her hand dropped to her throat, fingers searching along her collarbone and down her sternum. A cloud passed over her features and her hand curled in on itself, empty. "How do you know about my mother's case?"

The Director clasped his hands between his knees, forearms on his thighs. "Organized crime is a smaller world than you may realize," he said. "Little ripples go a long way."

Her gaze dropped to his hands and lingered a moment too long - he glanced down and saw only his thumbs, working over themselves in repetitive circles. Glancing up, he found her eyes back on his face, searching, darting, catching subtle details. He knew an investigation when he saw one. Whatever she'd been told, he needed to neutralize it, convince her the whole abduction was a mistake.

Except that it wasn't, and traitorous thoughts prompted him to just give in to the opportunity fate had dealt him.

"What other reasons did you think brought me here?" he asked.

"I think you know." She met his gaze.

He waited.

She closed her eyes briefly with a soft inhale, and he saw the decision to trust him play across her face an instant before she spoke. "Castle said they taped him for a ransom video. I assumed it landed in your department and brought you here."

Dead on. The Director nodded, mind racing. How could he ask '_did they tell you his father's name?'_ without raising her suspicions? If she was as good as his research indicated, she'd read through such a transparent question in a heartbeat. "It did," he admitted. "Landed on my desk yesterday morning. Vales claimed Castle's biological father worked for us." He might as well get it out there.

She didn't seem surprised. "Vales is well-connected," she remarked.

"And he was either misinformed or bluffing. We have no record of any agents with the name mentioned. It may have been a cover name used by one of our people, but - desperate criminals will go to great lengths for a power play. We're investigating, but it's possible this whole scenario was a fabrication."

She stared at him for too long and said nothing. He needed to keep going.

"Did they mention any name to you? Refer to any nicknames, a description, position - anything?"

"No. Maybe to Castle, but..." She shook her head.

"How long have you known him?" he asked, feeling suddenly very raw. He should have let Carson handle the whole debriefing. He was leading himself into dangerous, vulnerable territory.

"Castle? We've worked together for about four years, off and on."

_What's he like? Do you know his daughter? _The questions shot through his mind and he dismissed them as fast as they came. "You...work together," he droned. "A cop and a writer."

"It's complicated," she said, her tone both warning him away and revealing too much.

The Director felt snarled inside - almost jealous of their relationship. He squashed the emotion before it could do any damage...but it squirmed beneath the surface. That damn crack in his armor. "Has he ever mentioned investigating his paternity?" he continued, fighting the tightness in his throat and dreading the answer. "Criminal organizations are very opportunistic," he explained. "They often watch people with influence for blackmail exactly like this. It's possible he inadvertently set himself up by leaving a trail during a misguided identity search." The emotion was building up beneath his diaphragm and leaving no room to breathe. It was his fault they were here; he'd left a trail years ago with that foolish paternity test. And that mistake had nearly killed the only bright spot in his life.

She was pensive for a moment before replying. "No, not to me," she said. "He didn't really think-" she abruptly stopped and looked away, seeming to grapple within herself. He wondered what issues simmered beneath their relationship. "He likes mysteries," she finally said. "And I think he likes having his own."

The Director started spinning his thumbs again, one on top of the other. He didn't know what that meant for him; didn't know how he should feel about it.

She abruptly angled her head, adopting a curious tone. "Do you always do that?"

He froze his thumbs, looked up at her. "Yes - old habit," he dismissed behind closed teeth. Surely she was just curious; surely genetics didn't encompass such things. What was he thinking, going down this road with a detective? He switched tracks. "Regardless of who had sex with who some forty-odd years ago, I'm more interested in the fact that _you_ are here, alive and slightly toasted. Which tells me they were after something."

She frowned and seemed to draw into herself; a brittle shell forming over her delicate features. "Do you fight them?" she finally asked.

Not as much as he should. "Yes," he said, putting a heavy measure of emotion into his words. Her eyes weighed his, and he was caught off-guard by the sudden vulnerability, hope, and trepidation mixed in their depths. She needed an ally. Desperately.

"They wanted a data chip," she said softly. "They said my mom was ready to prosecute and hid the case files. I didn't even know she had built a complete case." She wasn't looking at him anymore; she was rubbing at the weave of her jeans, a strange, self-incriminating smile directing her tone.

A complete case against the Initiative? A loose end dangerous enough for them to risk a dozen suspicious deaths to keep it all quiet?

"Do you think it's true?" he asked. "Do you think her case is out there?"

The detective swallowed and shrugged. "I saw some convincing proof it existed." Her tired countenance shifted and the Director caught a spark of light in her eyes. "If it does, it's the best damn case in New York against these monsters. Airtight, locked down, evidence and paper trails for everything. That was my mom. No stone unturned."

He crinkled his eyes in a genuine closed-lip smile.

She stared at him.

He relaxed his features and she fluttered her eyes quickly away. Adjusting his seat on the stool, he restlessly extended a leg. "But you have no idea where this microchip might be?"

"No," she said, looking defeated. "Maybe if I had some time to go through it all again, sit with her belongings for a while..." She grimaced, shifting in discomfort. "Castle's going to hate me," she murmured.

He looked inquiringly at her.

"I told him I'd give it up," she said softly. "It's...we fought about it." She drew a breath and sealed her lips; held it all in her chest.

"It's alright; you've had a hell of a week."

She steepled her fingers and pressed the tips into the space between her eyes, closing her lashes. "God - he came back for me," she whispered, the words muffled behind her palms. "Oh, god."

The Director looked down briefly in discretion; heard her sniff twice and let out a slow breath.

"Do you know how it's going?" she asked, clear and steady again, one hand resting at the junction of her collarbones.

The Director checked his watch. "He should be coming out of surgery soon. Just a shoulder wound, broken nose...all out-patient, nothing major. I wouldn't be too concerned."

"I know," she said, but her voice said otherwise.

There was a small pause, and the Director leaned forward and cleared his throat. "There was a body-" he started, then stopped and rephrased. "There was an inside man who helped you escape," he stated.

"Did you know him?" Her tone was soft, apologetic.

"How did he die?"

She pressed down her lips, eyes compassionate. "I don't really know. Castle said he threw himself into the line of fire to return a grenade."

The Director bit down lightly on the tip of his tongue and rubbed a hand over his hair. "Bastard," he muttered softly.

"Who was he?"

"A freakin' saint," he answered, then abruptly stood. He had a lot of questions unasked and unanswered, but the room felt too small and her presence too large. It was her voice and her eyes and her manner - and the fact that she was intimate with his only child. The real questions he wanted to ask were far beyond reason.

"You're getting low on juice," he noted, raising his eyes to the IV hook. "I'll call a nurse to replace your fluids." He started to turn away but caught himself and turned back. "Thank you. You're not alone in this."

Walking out, he felt her eyes following him into the corridor.

* * *

Carson found the Director perched in the waiting room, a wooden rosary running a continuous loop through his fingers. The Director glanced at him and glanced away, still spinning the rosary.

"You aren't going to bury him in it?" Carson asked, twitching a finger at the moving cross and beads.

"I don't think he'll miss it," the Director replied curtly.

Carson regarded him a moment before speaking. "He'd want you to have it, anyway," he said, seating himself beside him.

The Director grunted and stopped the endless motion, his fingers reaching to capture the cross. "He used to be an artisan, back in Mexico. Made little figurines for market to feed his ten-year-old daughter." He held up the cross for inspection, but any tool marks had worn off with age.

Carson flicked his eyes over the Director's face, surprised by the spontaneous sharing. There was a difference in his demeanor, something visceral that was welling up beneath the surface.

"Took him five years to work deep enough into the drug cartels to exact vengeance on the boys that raped and murdered her," the Director added.

Carson was silent, taken aback. He'd spent a lot of hours talking with Felix, enough to develop a friendship, but none of them had detailed his past. Most of the time, Felix called him for personal favors; he had another boy that needed transportation and a work visa to some migrant farm for good, honest work. How he turned the boys moral in such a base lifestyle without being found out was a mystery bordering on miraculous. That was the Felix he knew.

The Director tugged up his sleeve up with his free hand. "This is how we met," he said, exposing a fine white scar on the back of his wrist. "Back when Vales was just dealing small stuff across the border. I only beat the flames off him and stopped the bleeding because I wanted information. Thought Vales might have been smuggling terrorists."

The pieces started making sense; Felix had mentioned, once, that the Director had saved his life. Carson cleared his throat. "He once told me you caused him to believe in redemption," he said, pausing momentarily. "That doesn't make sense to me."

The Director chuckled. "Me neither," he agreed. He let the rosary tumble down and swing against his leg. "But he damn well redeemed himself," he added quietly. "A damn martyr."

"I think he'd already found his redemption. He did this for you."

"Bull_shit_ Carson; don't put this on me." The Director edged firmly.

Carson held his eyes steady on the Director's face. It had flushed slightly. "When he called me, during that last conversation, he told me he had your son."

The cross stopped swinging; it hung, quivering, against the crease of the Director's pants. "He only knew what Vales told him," the Director said, shaking his head. "I never told him about the paternity test."

"…that came back negative." Carson added.

The Director nodded his head slowly for too long, staring studiously ahead.

A nurse stepped up to them, her eyes watery with exhaustion yet warmed by the smile on her face. "Sir? Mr. Castle is out of surgery now. If you'll just come with me–"

"Is he awake?" The Director asked.

"No, not yet," she replied.

"Just give me his room number. I know my way around."

She looked dubious, but he flashed his credentials for effect and she shrugged, scrawling the number onto a note before handing it over. "Don't wait too long. It's always nicer to wake up with someone around," she hinted, retreating back to the nurse's station.

Carson looked at him. He was about to offer to go in his stead when the Director leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees, his hands in his hair.

"How does a man redeem himself?" The Director asked, his words muffled as he spoke into the floor.

"First, know how badly he needs it," Carson replied, mind spinning with the implications.

The Director was motionless for several heartbeats before he straightened, reset his hair, and started down the long hall, the rosary still clutched in his fingers.

* * *

A/N: Guys I am so sorry this took so long. I must have re-wrote it five times...there was a lot I felt I wanted to say, but I couldn't decide whose perspective to come from, how to say it...uhg. First real brush with writer's block, I guess. But I kept writing anyway, like they say, and now I've rewritten it so many times I feel like it is just mush and I can't get an emotional read on it at all.

So, I hope it didn't fall too flat...whoooo oooo - does Beckett figure it out first? Or does the Director confront Castle with the truth?


	11. Chapter 11

Reality came to Castle in a strange way; he went to open his eyes and found they were already open, staring out all on their own. For an instant his surroundings consisted entirely of odd planes and disconnected angles before his brain made sense of his nerves and he found himself propped up in a small room with a single door and an unknown man standing in the corner. The stranger made eye contact and Castle felt unbalanced, his mind thrown into sudden confusion. He'd been expecting something else; someone else...where was he? Oh, yes -

"Where's Beckett?" he asked the stranger. His voice cracked oddly and he swallowed the last few syllables. Something white sat over his nose, heavy and blocking the inside of his vision.

"Down the hall recovering, same as you," the man said, making no effort to step closer.

A wave of stiffness locked his shoulder and Castle looked down to find his arm in a sling across his stomach. He wiggled his fingers experimentally and worked on putting all the pieces of his awareness back together, noting that the bandages taped to his chest wrapped around to join in a cluster behind his shoulder.

"Heh," he said. "I guess they got it out?"

The man nodded. "It was up under your shoulder blade and between two ribs."

"Can I have it? It'll look so B.A. on my desk."

The man snorted and shrugged. "Sure. I'll ask."

"Or maybe I'll find a display case and put it up on the shelf with the other awards," Castle continued. "Yeah – my trophy bullet. So cool." Beckett would hate it, probably, or at least find it annoyingly immature. But the bullet and its story made the whole ordeal worthwhile. "How is she?" he asked. "Beckett? –can I see her?"

"She's fine," the man said. "She'll be slowed down for a while, but she's...sharp." He paused and made pointed eye contact. "Don't screw it up."

"Ah, what?"

"I've handled a lot of hostage situations. After what she's been through–?" the man shook his head. "They hardly ever handle it this well. She's one to stick with."

Castle had initially assumed the man was a security guard due to the way he crowded the corner, but now he reassessed his first impression. The stranger had the stereotypical barrel chest and cut jawline of a guard, but he was in his shirtsleeves with the top button undone and the knot of his tie loosened and pulled down from his neck. Not exactly the appearance of a man on the job.

"When did you start sleeping with her?" the man asked.

"We - ah - did she tell you that?" Who the hell was this guy?

The man dropped his chin and looked at him from under his brow. "She wouldn't be here except that she was at your loft before eight in the morning. People usually meet at coffee shops for coffee dates."

Castle squinted at the man, making a show of looking him up and down. "Exactly how are you involved in all of this?"

A flash of something shot through the man's eyes, too quick for identification. "I'm a Director at the CIA," the man said. "I'm a little involved in everything."

"The CIA?" Castle felt himself gaping but couldn't help it. "I thought maybe the FBI, but...the CIA! Did you know Sophia Turner?"

"The Russian whore that tried to put a bullet in your head?"

Castle drew back at the disgust in the man's voice, chastising himself. Only a fool brings up a previous friendship with a double agent to a Director at the CIA. "Right – but what about Agent Gray?" he said. "He helped me consult on a few of my early Derrick Storm novels - ever heard of them? They're turning them into graphic novels now, if you're more of a comic-book kind of guy."

"I'm not really a fiction kind of guy," the Director said. His eyebrows gave a sardonic lift. "But I was kind of pissed that you killed him."

Castle grinned. "I know, right? I'm so ruthless."

The Director crossed his arms. "So you write books and live in Manhattan with your single mother and your only daughter."

"Yes," Castle said. "But Alexis just graduated. Baby bird's about to leave the nest – but I think I'm in denial. You know how it is: you blink and they go from pacifiers and diapers to tassels and gowns."

The Director grunted and fidgeted with a chain of wooden beads that was wrapped about one hand. "It gets worse," he said. "Then they have kids."

The course of conversation felt strange to Castle; the man seemed to be content to let him rattle on under the influence of pain meds with little direction or guidance. It felt more like small talk with an acquaintance than a purposeful debriefing with an intelligence director. He still wasn't sure why the man was here, or why this was the CIA and not the FBI...unless…

Of course. The ransom video.

"My dad works for you, doesn't he?" Castle stated as it all fell together. "You're here because of him."

The Director's eyes snapped to his, letting the question hang in an uncomfortable silence.

"I know - you can't tell me because then you'd have to kill me - but I know." Castle said. "If he didn't, you wouldn't be here."

The Director pursed his lips. "There are a lot of reasons why I am here. Mainly because Vales' business concerns us and you got wrapped up in the middle of it."

"Aw, come on," Castle pressed. "I've been beat up and dragged through hell for this guy; I deserve to at least know something about him."

The Director's face relented and he drew a breath, but a knock on the door interrupted his reply. The head and shoulders of a male nurse appeared and the door partially blocked the Director from view as the nurse leaned in. "Hello, Mr. Castle," the nurse said. "I've got a friend here to see you."

Castle pushed himself a little higher on the inclined bed in anticipation, feeling his heartbeat momentarily stutter along his ribs. The strength of the feeling surprised him and he shot his eyes to the Director in self-conscious embarrassment, but the man didn't seem to notice. He heard her voice in the hall and his heart slipped again, and then there she was, walking towards him on her own two legs - a bit slouched, stiff, and stepping with small, careful strides - but up and moving all the same, not slung over a shoulder or staring past him with glassy eyes.

The nurse kept a hand under Beckett's elbow and helped her into the chair beside Castle's bed. She put up a bold front, but he could see the pain crouching at the corners of her eyes. God, he wished he'd gotten there sooner.

"Hey," he said, his grin uncontrollable and euphoric.

"Hey," she smiled back, her eyes holding onto his before drifting momentarily to the bandages wrapped about him like a bad Halloween costume. Something between pity and a grimace crossed her features as she looked back at his face. "You look like hell."

"Yeah? Well you look like heaven, Kate."

"Are you on drugs?"

"Yes."

"Mmm." She tilted her head and he caught a small smile before her fingertips reached up to scratch lightly down his temple. "You need a shave."

He reflexively flicked his eyes to the Director and she drew her hand subtly away with the knowledge of their company.

"Kate - this is..." Castle looked to the Director.

"We've already met," the Director said with a tight smile. "You're a little behind." He wasn't leaning on the wall anymore; he was standing free, hands at his sides, preparing to make an exit.

"Wait–" Castle said. "–I'm serious; I just want to know if my dad really works for the CIA."

The Director's eye twitched. "Do you know his name?"

"No."

"Have you tried to find him?"

A comic expression grabbed Castle's face. "No – hah! I've been too busy making my own way. But I would get serious man points if I had a secret spy as a father." He heard Beckett's sharp inhale beside him and glanced over to find her eyes wide on his.

The Director dipped his head and turned his shoulders towards the door. "We don't recognize the name on the video. I'll let you know if anything turns up."

Beckett swung her head to the Director. "Castle deals with pain and uncertainty through humor," she said abruptly.

Castle frowned at her odd statement, but she had her eyes locked with the Director's, holding him in the room.

"That's good," the Director said, dragging his eyes from Beckett to nod at Castle as he opened the door. "It's an effective method."

"Don't forget to ask about my bullet!" Castle said into the Director's back as the door closed. Rolling his head along his pillow, he looked fully at Beckett. "What was that all about?"

She looked back at him with the abstract expression she wore when she stood in front of the murder board on the verge of a breakthrough. "I'm not sure," she said. Her lips parted as if to say more, but she only blinked and shook her head.

"Come on, spill. I can see it all in your head."

"I don't know, Rick. Maybe don't joke about spies to other spies?"

He gave her a doubtful look. "Man points. That's like the least offensive thing to joke about."

She gave it up. "I talked to Esposito. That's why I came to find you."

"Oh, yeah? They gave you a phone? I'd like to call my mother and Alexis."

"They took it back." Beckett lifted one arm across her body and rested it on the bed near his thigh, reaching for his fingers. "Do you have my necklace?

Castle frowned and took her hand, noting that both their wrists were bound in soft gauze. "No...did you ask the nurses?"

She closed her eyes and cursed softly on an exhale. "I wasn't admitted with one. I thought you had it."

"No, I'm sorry - what's wrong?"

A deep groove had appeared between her eyes and she seemed to struggle for words. "The data chip. It's in my mother's ring."

Castle's eyes widened. "This whole time?"

"Castle, if we don't know where it is, then that means-" she cut off in frustration, disengaging her hand from to his to push herself upwards. "I need to find the Director."

"No, wait - just let me call the nurse..." He reached across his body and fumbled for the call button, annoyed they had put it on his injured side. Three presses later, he brought his hand back to Beckett. "This is the CIA, Kate. I'm sure they'll use a ring-detecting satellite and find it by tonight."

"What if they've already destroyed it?" she asked, her face beginning to lose composure.

"Ghost bleeds blackmail. He'd make a copy."

The nurse arrived, and Castle sent him out on his errand with as much hustle as he could impress upon the guy. In a place rampant with medical emergencies, non-medical matters received moderate urgency at best. Even so, only fifteen minutes passed by before a younger man in a suit walked in and introduced himself as Carson, the Director's assistant. Upon hearing of the missing ring and its accompanying data chip, he informed them that the cabin and its underground warehouse had already been seized and a team would be tasked with finding it.

"Where was the last place you know you had it?" Carson asked.

Beckett sat quietly a moment, mentally searching. "I had it in the concrete room, but once the drugs hit..." she shook her head. "I don't know if I had it in the cave."

Carson looked to Castle. "Do you remember seeing it in the cave?"

Castle shook his head, reversing their flight in his mind. The cave, the woods, the van – Felix had had her upside down half the time, and there were a dozen places where it could have torn away or fallen off. He tried to remember if she had been wearing it when he had first seen her in the bedroom, with Vales…

A wall of emotion hit him as the memories crowded his mind, laced with layer after layer of emotional turmoil. Fear, revulsion, anger, hate; he saw Vales bending over her, pinning her arms, fingers at her waist – an eternal picture seared into his mind – followed closely by the memory of the rifle's weight in his palm and his finger on the trigger with the barrel aimed at the hunk on the floor.

Oh god; he'd nearly killed an unconscious man. A bad man, yes; but still.

"Castle?" Beckett was looking at him.

"No," he said, suppressing the guilt. "I don't think you had it in the cave...but maybe in the, uh, the downstairs room behind the office."

"Good," Carson said. "This helps tremendously. If you have any other memory sparks, just let me know." Beckett nodded and Carson shifted his weight to the other foot, his features taking on a certain earnestness. "How are you both holding up?"

"Fine," Castle and Beckett answered in near-unison.

Carson glanced between them, a smile suppressed at his lips. "Right. Look, I've dealt with a lot of these situations and...I've learned a few things." He flipped out a card and laid it on the bed sheet. "If that fine feeling goes away, call me. I'm here to help."

Castle smirked, thinking about all that he and Beckett had been through, but Beckett simply took the card and thanked the man as he left.

"Here," she said, awkwardly working it into the front pocket of his jeans. "You keep it."

"Why me?"

"Because I don't feel like getting up and putting it in my pocket, okay?"

"I'm sorry." Castle said, reaching up to caress her shoulder. "I read into it."

She deflated. "Don't apologize. I'm just tired." Bringing up her opposite arm she slipped her hand into his and moved their hands back to the bed near his thigh. "Ryan was shot," she said after a small silence.

A sudden nausea swept over him. "Kate," he whispered, squeezing her hand as Ghost's words about two slugs to the chest echoed through his mind.

"He was wearing a vest," Beckett said with a weak smile. "Suffered a few broken ribs and massive bruising."

Castle closed his eyes and let the warmth of relief wash him clean. When he opened them again, she'd laid her head down upon her outstretched arm on the mattress. Untangling his hand from their fingers, he stroked her hair away from her face. "Kate, you need to ask for some pain medicine."

"Can't," she said, turning her head to see him better. "There's still too much in my system."

He worked his fingers into her hair, finding her scalp and trying to soothe the pain with his touch. She watched him, her eyes roaming his face.

"Tell me about you," Castle murmured. "All my injuries are on display."

She gave a soft sigh, as if gathering strength. "Minor internal burns, extensive micro tearing in the muscles of my arms and trunk, some nerve damage; nothing life-threatening. And nothing they can do except wait and manage the side effects."

"Side effects?"

Beckett nodded under his hand and dropped her lashes to her cheeks. "Might be some."

"Does it hurt to talk?" Castle asked, then felt stupid for making her answer the obvious.

"Shocked my diaphragm."

"Good god – don't answer me. I'm sorry. I should have thought of that."

She opened her eyes again. "It doesn't hurt anymore. It's just – exhausting."

He wished the bed were wide enough for the two of them, and then decided it would just have to be. "Do you think you could get up here with me?"

"No. Maybe. Ask me in a bit."

"Okay," he said, helpless to assist her. Her eyes were closed again. He loved the way her lashes settled on her cheeks, like dark butterflies resting on the full petals of a delicate flower. Moving her hair aside, he ran his fingers down her neck, feeling the swell of her spine as he burrowed under the hem of her scrub-top and found a shoulder blade, a few ribs, and more beautiful, beautiful skin.

"Tell me how you got me out," Beckett said, almost a whisper.

He should; she had a right to know. "I will," he said. "Sometime."

"Was it bad?"

He didn't reply. He wasn't sure how to define bad. "No," he decided. "Just intense."

He could see one side of her mouth lifting slightly. "You going to need to call Carson before you tell me?"

He ruffled the hair at the base of her neck and chuckled. "No...maybe I just want to make sure it's a good story."

"Mmm," she said. "Just don't edit out the gritty stuff. I've read every one of your crime scenes."

He didn't tell her that writing a crime scene about a fictional character was entirely different than reliving a crime scene involving someone you loved. He looked at her face again; tried to remember the last time he had told her. But too many thoughts, emotions, and events were tangled into the last two (or was it three?) days; he couldn't filter through it all and decided that meant it had been too long.

"I love you, Kate."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"I'm getting up there with you."

* * *

A/N: Ah, last weeks episode is what I get for being a slow writer. Punishment duly taken. They stole a few of my ideas, too, ha! ;) But I loved the episode! Just remember...Jackson Hunt is a cover name. That might matter in upcoming chapters.

Anybody find this chapter worth reviewing? I know I'm a terribly slow writer, and I'm sorry, but I do my best while working 3 jobs.


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